Afterlife
by Janissa11
Summary: Gil always thought Nick's life was an open book. In the aftermath of Nick's death, wracked by grief and trying desperately to go on, Gil discovers Nick had secrets -- and some of them may threaten Gil, too. Non-explicit slash; death story. See notes in ch
1. Default Chapter

**Afterlife**

**By EB**

**©2004**

_Notes: Several warnings apply for this story. Please note the following. 1) This is a death story, at least in the beginning, and therefore if such things aren't to your taste, be warned. 2) It is also slash, although non-explicit. Use your own discretion. 3) This presupposes a slash relationship between Gil and Nick, although one that takes place primarily only in flashback. The primary basis for the story is case-related. As always, comments welcomed, and my belated thanks to those who had such kind things to say about "Enmity" and "Boucenna's Walk." Hope you enjoy this one as well. EB_

Life means all that it ever meant,  
it is the same as it ever was.  
There is unbroken continuity,  
why should I be out of mind  
because I am out of sight?  
I am waiting for you  
somewhere very near  
just around the corner.  
All is well  
(Henry Scott Holland)

**Chapter One**

The sun still rose in the mornings. Set in the evenings.

Gil stared out the window at the bright, warm spring sunshine and felt his throat tighten. Familiar feeling, status quo, it seemed. Underscoring his certainty: It shouldn't be this way. Things should not simply go forward, as if nothing at all had happened.

It was…improper. That was the right word. Bad form.

And yet things persisted. The traffic was bustling, although it was still two hours shy of actual rush hour. So many people going on with their lives, unaware.

Indecorous. Show some respect. It was the least anyone could do, wasn't it?

"Traffic's a bitch today." Catherine sounded forcefully casual, tapping the brake and glancing in the rear-view mirror. "Must be the construction."

Aren't you going to ask me about it? he thought of saying, but instead he nodded, still watching out the window. There wasn't that much to say, anyway. Nice as those things went, but he had never been so glad to step off a plane at McCarran, walk outside and feel dry, dust-scented air on his skin.

"Is there anything I can do?" Catherine asked quietly.

It made him draw his eyes away from the mindless highway, glance at her. Her mouth was turned down, creases at the corners of her lips aging her, a touch of the fragility he seemed to see everywhere these days. How mutable the world was now. How transient. He shook his head. "Thank you. I'd just like to get home."

"I'd like to schedule a memorial service. For people who couldn't go to the funeral. Is that all right?"

"Of course." He shrugged. "When do you have in mind?"

"A couple of weeks, maybe. I'll need –" She cleared her throat. "If you could help me come up with a list of people. I'll put a notice in the paper, but just in case."

"All right."

They drove in silence the rest of the way. More than once he felt a stirring inside, something wanting to say a few words, make her feel more at ease. She hadn't gone to Dallas; couldn't, for both professional and personal reasons. But that was all right, too. There had been plenty of people there. More than he'd anticipated, quite a few more. Old friends from high school and college, family acquaintances, most he couldn't place and hadn't tried. The cathedral had been packed, hot and muggy and stinking from all the flowers. No, she hadn't been missed.

Instead he watched, and finally grasped the door handle when the car was stopped in his driveway. "Thanks for picking me up. I appreciate it."

She shrugged and put the car in park before reaching over to pop the trunk. "It was the least I could do, Gil," she told him softly.

Outside the car she watched him grab his one suitcase. Bigger than he preferred, but he'd had to bring a suit, after all.

"I'm so sorry, Gil," Catherine said in a thick, tragic voice. Her eyes brimmed with tears. "I know that doesn't help. But I'm sorry."

It didn't help, but he made himself smile. "I know," he told her gently.

The house smelled stale, shut up for eight days. He set his suitcase near the door and walked slowly through the living area, turning on a couple of lamps, opening the blinds. Everything just as he'd left it. They had left it. The book still open on the kitchen table, where he'd placed it before going in to make the coffee he'd never started. The phone had rung, not his cell but the house phone, and there were still beans in the coffee grinder. Waiting patiently to be ground, used up.

There was so much to be done. He stood in the middle of the room, arms limp at his sides. Things to be gone through. Clothes, papers, memorabilia. Gil couldn't wear the clothing; too small, too tight. Even if he'd wanted to. He would need boxes. Call the DAV, arrange to have the clothing picked up. Could some of it be thrown out? How could he tell? What was most important? What should he keep?

He sat down hard on the floor, not even noticing the cold tile underneath his ass. He couldn't do all this. It was too much. How could he be expected to decide? What made him the expert on what should go and what should stay? Everything? Nothing?

And why was it suddenly so hard to breathe? The air had been sucked out of the room, leaving only this dusty stale vacuum. He inhaled, so deeply it made his head spin, and let all the nonexistent air out in a hoarse cry, No, no, it couldn't be done, should not be done, none of this should be happening. Not right, not FAIR, none of it, and something this monstrously wrong wasn't allowed to actually come to pass.

The first sob hurt him, deep inside his chest, like something bronchial and infected. So long since he'd wept over anything at all, too long since he'd allowed it, not even at that horrible funeral, with semi-hysterical parents and so many siblings, so many Stokes to go around, why did it have to be HIS? What kind of grinning winking god had spun that wheel, loaded the game, put in the fix that made it Nick whose body lay in that expensive casket, in whose memory were sent so many lilies and carnations and roses that to his own dying day Gil knew he would loathe all flowers forevermore, forever and ever amen.

He sat on the bare cold floor and hung his head and rediscovered how to cry.

* * *

The doorbell awoke him. He blinked blearily, startled to find himself on the couch, unable for a moment to remember when he'd sat here. Sometime after that painful blurred hour of crying, he supposed. His eyes stung, and when he reached up to rub them his fingers didn't recognize his features. Puffy eyes, puffy cheeks. A stranger's grieving face, then. Not his own. 

The bell rang again, and he lumbered to his feet. Beyond the open door Warrick stood, handsome face drawn with uncertainty, deepening into alarm as he took in Gil's appearance. "Hey," Warrick said gruffly. "Heard you got back this morning."

Gil nodded, feeling the stiffness in his neck. Sleeping on couches would do that to you. "Come inside?"

Warrick nodded, and gave his puffy eyes another wary look before walking in.

He ground the coffee, without thinking much about when it had been measured. It gave him something to do. Behind him, Warrick didn't settle, prowling around the kitchen, circling the table.

"You coming in tonight?"

Gil shook his head, tapping out the last of the coffee grounds. "Not tonight, no."

"Yeah, I'm off myself. Wanted to see, you know. How you were doing."

"I'm fine." He poured water into the machine. With that done, there wasn't much else to do but turn and face him. "It was – difficult," he added slowly. "Coming back, seeing the house."

Warrick nodded, looking almost grateful at Gil's halting words. "I bet. Listen, I'm sorry I couldn't go to Dallas. I wanted to. You know that."

"It's all right. Really. It was – about what you'd expect."

"Nice?"

"I suppose. Yes."

He turned back to the coffee maker, stricken with flailing discomfort, and Warrick said, "I wanted to tell you, you know. If you want someone to give you a hand with Nick's – stuff. I've done that before. I know how hard it is."

Gil nodded without looking around. "That might be good," he said as calmly as he could. "Yes."

"You want to talk about it? I'm here, Gil. Anything you need."

"Thank you." There was a bump in his voice, and his traitorous eyes stung. He reached up to take two mugs from the shelf. "I'm not sure what there is to say."

"After you left. Brass took it awful hard. We all know there wasn't a thing he could have done, but anyway. You seen him yet?"

His back stiffened. "No," he said more curtly than he meant to. "Not yet."

"Gil, man. Jim couldn't have changed things. You know that, right?"

"Of course. It was – very quick."

"Just –"

"I don't blame him." He turned his head, gave Warrick what he hoped was a level look. "I don't. But he is a – reminder. That's all."

Warrick nodded. "Yeah," he agreed softly. "Guess so."

"You're doing all right? Anything happen while I was gone?"

"Usual crap. Nothing that spectacular." Gil could hear what he wasn't saying. Nothing could top what happened nearly ten days ago.

Ten days. Had it only been that long? Two weeks ago, everything was fine. Not perfect; no, even rosy memory couldn't be that kind. But good, oh yes, good. What had Nick said, the weekend they spent at the vineyard? Was it June? Only two months ago. When they'd had all the time in the world. "Gil, I love my life. I just want you to know that."

He clamped his lips shut over a cry of absolute loss. Jesus, it was never going to end. He could see Nick's body, he could feel for himself that there was no pulse and no respiration, he could evidently bury him, but he could not stop this relentless perfection of memory. Nick's face, flushed with wind and wine, teeth gleaming in the sunlight. His hand on Gil's knee, squeezing with his words. What had he said to that? Something light and meaningless, instead of dropping to his knees and telling Nick that whatever he felt, Gil felt doubly, triply.

If only he'd said it. If only, if only. Did Nick know it, then? Did he?

"Griss?"

He blinked hot tears away and shook his head. "Sorry. I just." Shook his head again.

Warrick nodded, looking miserably awkward.

After another awful moment he got the coffee poured into mugs, and there was something briefly to do with cream and sugar, and Warrick limpingly got the subject changed to a case he was working. Gil fell into it with utter relief. Anything, please God, anything to make me stop thinking. At this rate I'll need a lobotomy soon.

"Anyway, I'm sitting there, right, and this guy just keeps on lying. Keeps on, right in my face. Like I haven't JUST told him exactly how it went down, showed him I knew the truth. He just keeps right on spinning the same story." Warrick shook his head, running a fingertip over the rim of his mug. "People just knock me out sometimes, you know? Hell, he'll probably run for President in a few years, or something." An eloquent snort. "Probably win."

Gil smiled, nodded, tasted his bitter coffee. "I meant to tell you. I ran into someone I believe you know. Dennis Quigley?"

Warrick's eyes widened. "Dennis? What the fuck?"

"He's working in Dallas, special investigator for the DA's office."

"Holy shit." Warrick whistled. "Yeah, I knew he did the law school thing a few years back. SMU, I think. Man. How's he doing?"

"He told me to tell you he hasn't forgotten 1994. I assume you know what that means."

A broad grin split Warrick's face. "Yeah. Yeah, I do. Damn. I need to look him up. Me and him go WAY back."

Gil nodded. "I got that impression."

"Man. Glad you told me. Made my day."

"Glad to pass it along."

Warrick's grin faded. "So you gonna be okay?"

Gil glanced down, staring into his own coffee cup. "Officially? Absolutely."

"Unofficially. This is me, man."

"Unofficially. I will be. Yes."

"You know if you need anything. Anything at all. Not just for you. For Nick."

Gil looked up, seeing the deep pain in Warrick's narrowed eyes. "He'd appreciate that," he said slowly. "As much as I do."

"Any time."

Gil drew a deep breath. "I'll need to sort through his things," he said quietly. "Sometime soon, I suppose. You mentioned, before -- Maybe you could – help with that."

"Absolutely."

"Thanks."

The house seemed forlornly empty after Warrick left. He busied himself in the kitchen, washing up and putting away, and then grabbed his suitcase from the foyer and took it into the bedroom. It wasn't until he'd set it near the closet that it occurred to him he'd have to sleep here. Slowly he turned, looked at the neatly made bed. This room, as much as any other, reflected Nick's touch. The feather duvet, Nick's choice and fiendishly expensive, and Gil had to admit, worth every penny. The photograph over the bed. Nick had surprised him with it, a blown-up version of Gil's own work, taken during their only vacation together. Alaska, 2003.

"You been hiding your light under a bushel," Nick proclaimed, after Gil had flushed and dithered about his own work framed and displayed. "You're one hell of a photographer, Gil. Admit it."

It was a good picture. It had been a good trip. Ruthlessly he pushed away the companion thought

there won't be another

and picked up the suitcase, unzipping it with fast motions.

All too soon he had his things put away. Suddenly exhausted, he sank down on the bed. Ridiculous, but he could still smell Nick in here. The cologne he liked, that herbal-smelling soap. Nick always smelled so good. Even sick in bed with the flu, smelled so good Gil sometimes wondered if he could bottle that smell, spray it around, so that he could enjoy it even when Nick wasn't around.

He hadn't changed the sheets since all this began. Too busy, and out of town much of the time.

His heart took a frantic leap in his chest, and he tugged down the duvet, snatched up the left pillow. Nick's pillow. He crushed it against his face. Yes, there was that smell. That aroma like soap and cut grass and the afterthought of rain, Nick's smell.

Hugging the pillow to him, he lay back and closed his eyes.


	2. Two

**Afterlife**

**By EB**

**©2004**

**Chapter Two**

_It's the same dream that's haunted him every time he's slept, for too many nights. Always the same: the chilly hallway, bluish light gleaming on metal and clean linoleum. People speak, but he can't hear them. As before, he thinks, But it's not my ears. I just don't care what they have to say._

_The morgue is even colder, and completely empty but for one table, and Al Robbins standing guard. As before, he wears street clothing, and Gil wants to snap that it's unprofessional of him, that he should be gloved and gowned. It's improper. Possibly dangerous. Right?_

_Al shakes his head. His voice sounds liquid, sodden, like he's talking underwater. "You don't need to see this, Gil. Don't put yourself through it."_

_In the dream he ignores it, gliding to stand by the table. There is a sheet-shrouded form there, and as he looks down the sheet peels itself back._

_He can remember a phrase, from some movie the title of which he can't recall. Running like a refrain in his mind: Die early, make a beautiful corpse. Something with James Dean and fast cars in it, maybe. Nick's corpse isn't beautiful. There is nothing dreamlike about this: just hellish clarity. They have not told him the details, but he knows enough. Shotgun blast to the occipital region, point-blank range. Nick has no face, and in fact very little head at all. From the neck down his body is pristine, white and perfect, but from the neck up all that is left is gory ruin._

_There is a single tooth in the midst of all the red and gray and white shattered bone. A single tooth that hasn't been blown out like the rest. A molar. No filling; Nick has gorgeous, perfect teeth. He stares at the molar, and hears Al's distant voice, Breathe, Gil, come on, breathe, and the idea pops into Gil's mind: He might not be dead yet. True, the shot has taken out his brainstem, there is no way, but he shudders, mouth filling with bile. What if he hadn't died right away? What if he knew, even for only a handful of seconds? What if he FELT this?_

_Gil stares down at what remains of Nick's face, and screams._

* * *

The memorial was held on a Saturday morning. He thought about not attending. Hadn't he done his duty? Hadn't he gone to Dallas, seen it through? Hadn't he held Nick's sobbing sister's hand, and gallantly fished out fresh tissues when she soaked all the others? He'd endured the stink of roses and the feel of his shirt sticking to his skin, the droning priest's voice and the taste of sour wine on his tongue, and wasn't that sufficient? When would he be done with this? When would it all be over? 

But not attending was out of the question, of course, so on Saturday morning he showered and shaved and combed his hair, and dressed in his charcoal suit – the linen, he'd learned his lesson in Highland Park, no more wool – tied his tie, added his UCLA pin because this was the sort of occasion for which the little bit of gold was intended.

His own shadowed eyes regarded him from the perfect reflection of the mirror. He drew a deep breath and buttoned his suit coat, and went to get his keys.

And it wasn't the torture that had been Nick's actual funeral. Not as many people, and no casket, although there were flowers, lots of them. Here, however, there was adequate air conditioning, and the smell wasn't quite the miasma of Dallas. He sat near the end of the front row, in this small church where he had never attended services, although Nick, he knew, had been a fairly active member before his attachment to Gil made him miss more and more Sundays.

It was clear Nick was remembered, and fondly, and there were numerous speakers. Colleagues, of course: Catherine, and Warrick, and Al. Brass was there, but didn't speak. It occurred to Gil, seeing Jim's tired features, that he needed to talk to him. Someday. When it had all begun to be only memory. Maybe next year.

Nick's wounded family had mostly elected not to make the trip, but Cabe and Jamie sat next to him, bookends, Jamie's hand cool and not unwelcome on his wrist. Near the end, Cabe stood to say a few words, thanking them for coming, talking about the memorial funds established in Nick's name. Two of them, both new to Gil. A scholarship back at A&M, for fraternity members. And one for the Audubon Society, of course. He thought about the expensive binoculars at home, and felt tired grief claw at his throat.

He himself said nothing. What was there to say? Nothing, nothing at all. But he shook a great many hands afterward, accepted the plenteous condolences. Agreed that yes, Nick had been a stalwart man, Nick had been good people, yes indeed. And no, he didn't need anything, really, but thank you, it's kind of you to offer. Much appreciated.

There were cookies and soda in the fellowship hall, where he smiled woodenly and wished for alcohol, brandy or bourbon or even tequila, something strong and mind-erasing. Never mind that it wasn't even noon yet. He felt he could pull a real bender today. Might have to, to get through it all.

Cabe, sociable as always, the burgeoning politician, mingled with everyone. But Jamie stood nearby, sipping at a cup of diet Coke that seemed to never get any emptier, and a moment after Gil had wearily shaken yet another well-meaning hand, he saw the tears on her cheeks, and excused himself.

"I'm all right," she said in a strained voice, with a smile that held nothing but sorrow. "Just – thinking, you know?"

He nodded, wishing he could put his arm around her, offer some form of comfort, and knowing he could not. "I know. So am I."

"Have we stayed long enough?" She uttered a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob, and reached up to wipe her cheeks. "You think?"

"Yes. Yes, I think we have."

"Thank God."

There were some goodbyes, and a promise to go to the house where Cabe would meet them later. Outside he watched Jamie draw a deep breath of dust-perfumed air. "It's not that I don't appreciate them," she blurted. "I do. I just."

He nodded. "Come on. I need a drink."

They didn't speak during the drive home, and once there, he mixed whiskey and ginger ale and watched Jamie down hers before allowing himself to drink. The alcohol ignited in his belly, a hot, welcome spark.

Jamie stood by the desk. "This is his stuff, isn't it?" She reached out to touch the photograph in the silver frame. "I remember when this was taken. Right after Dad was sworn in."

"I haven't touched anything." Gil swallowed whiskey, listened to the clink of ice in the glass. "I suppose I should."

"God, he was such a packrat. I think he kept everything." She pulled out the chair and sat, her gamine face twisted in a rueful smile. She glanced at him. "Do you want me to?"

He inclined his head. "Be my guest. I'm not even sure what's in there."

She pulled open the top drawer. "A whole lot of paper clips," she told him, and uttered a rattled laugh. "Was he afraid of a worldwide shortage or something? Jesus."

He smiled. "I have no idea."

Partly because he was tired, but mostly because the thought of even Nick's sister poring through his personal materials made him feel deeply violated on Nick's behalf, he retreated to his study. It startled him to see that over an hour had passed when Jamie looked in. Her expression was quizzical.

"Gil, there's a lot of financial stuff in here." She hefted a thick set of file folders. "I can do the other things, but I don't do money." She paused and swallowed. "I almost said, 'Just ask Nick, he knows how bad I am with money.' God."

He took the files, frowning. "We talked about a joint account, but we never got around to opening it. I know he had a checking account at my bank, and an IRA. And I believe he had a money-market account somewhere. It's listed in his will." He glanced at the tags, and pursed his lips. "I'm not sure what all these are."

Together they laid out the file folders on his desk. Fighting down another surge of furtive guilt, Gil pulled out one labeled as "insurance." He expected Nick's auto policy, the copies of Gil's homeowner policy, nothing much else. What he found was considerably more.

"Jamie," he breathed, staring at her. "I didn't know this was here."

"What?" She reached out to take the sheets of paper from his hand. A moment's study, and her wide eyes met his. "Life insurance? Nick had a life insurance policy?"

"I didn't even know about this." He sat up sharply, shaking his head. "We talked about this, just a few months ago. I have a policy, but I told him –" He broke off to swallow. "I told him he was too young to worry about it. He must -- He must have ignored me."

But Jamie was shaking her head, too. "This policy's dated close to three years ago. You weren't -- Nick didn't even move in until last year, right?"

He raised his hands and slumped back in his seat. "He must have had it even before we dated. So why did he want to get another one?"

Her expression was perplexed. "Maybe, you know, your line of work. He wanted to be – prepared."

"The department carries an accidental-death policy on each of us. That's in addition to any private policy we might hold."

"He might have been thinking about canceling this one. Redoing it, something."

He shook his head. "Maybe. But generally that isn't a good idea with life insurance."

Jamie glanced at the papers again. "Okay, but Gil? This –" She cleared her throat. "This is a big policy. Really big. Did you look?"

"No." He waved his hands again. "I don't need the money."

"Not even a half a million dollars?"

He gaped at her, and then snatched the policy from her hands. "A half –" He blinked his eyes hard, but the black-and-white numbers remained steadfastly the same. "Jesus," he breathed.

"Nick had a $500,000 life-insurance policy, and he never even told you about it?" She looked as stunned as he felt. "That's incredible."

He worked some spit into his mouth. "It's excessive," he muttered, clearing his throat roughly. "Why so much? Could he afford this?"

Jamie uttered a high, strained laugh. "I don't even know how you collect on one of these."

"The beneficiary takes the policy in and asks for the money," he told her absently. "They'll kick and scream, and they may want to investigate, but eventually they pay up."

"You're his beneficiary, right?"

"Of his will, yes. But this policy was written before we were a couple."

"Doesn't it say somewhere?"

He flipped through the pages. "Yes." His heart was thudding very fast in his chest; he felt a little dizzy. "It's me."

He looked up. It wasn't the prospect of a tremendous amount of money that made his head feel so disconnected from the rest of his body. That he knew, without question. He'd trade five times that amount to have Nick back, whole and healthy.

But something tickled in his jangled brain, something quiet and determined. The amount was excessive, yes. Far more than would be needed to take care of expenses, that sort of thing. Nick's funeral had been expensive, but the final sum hadn't even come entirely out of Gil's pocket; Nick's parents had footed most of the bill themselves, since they'd done the planning. Gil's only major expense had been transporting the body, a substantial sum but not outrageous, comparatively speaking.

Half a million dollars. It would be enough to pay for every Stokes grandchild to attend the college of his or her choice. Endow a scholarship or two, invest, retire on. But Nick hadn't named his family for beneficiary, but Gil. Gil, who earned a very good salary on top of the substantial inheritance from his father nearly ten years ago. Gil, who patently did not need anything like such a vast bequest from his lover.

Questions popped into his head, immediate and insistent. What had Nick thought this amount of money should cover? What contingency was this intended for? If Nick had known, the answer had died with him on that blisteringly hot evening a mile off the interstate.

And the last question, slower to arrive and the one he felt least capable of answering. What else had Nick planned for, years before his untimely death? What other secrets had he kept?

"Gil?" Jamie's face was pale but composed, her dark eyes wide. "You were a million miles away."

"Sorry." He cleared his throat, trying with partial success to shake off the clinging film of foreboding. "I'm – surprised. Understatement," he added with an awkward smile.

"I've been looking at the rest of this stuff." She shrugged. "I mean, nothing much else. He had a couple of other bank accounts, I think, but if the balances are right there wasn't that much in them. Maybe he just – had a big life-insurance thing."

He nodded slowly. "Maybe."

"You want me to go through the rest of the desk stuff? I think it's mostly just supplies, that kind of thing."

"Sure. Thank you."

She gave him an uncertain look before ducking back into the living room. After she'd gone, he sat very still, staring at the blotter on his desk. Cabe's arrival some time later startled him. Listening to Jamie talking with her brother, Gil put the folders back together, the life insurance on top, and placed them in his own hanging file before going out to see what the next plans were.

* * *


	3. Three

**Afterlife**

**By EB**

**©2004**

**Chapter Three**

On the one-month anniversary of Nick's death, he forced himself to begin going through the closets, both hall and bedroom. Nick's sister had been correct: Nick was – had been – a hoarder in some ways, and had held onto things Gil wondered at now. Clothes that didn't fit, sized for a man not quite as muscular as Nick had gotten; shoes too beat-up to be serviceable; hats and jackets and one moth-eaten wool scarf that appeared both ancient and hand-knitted. Who'd made it for him? One of his many sisters? Who could say now?

He'd planned ahead. No work today, even considering that he'd been a rarity there for the past few weeks. More days off than on, and he didn't much care what it meant. Work was difficult, and not only because Nick's absence was still a gaping wound, not even scabbed-over yet. It went deeper than that. Perhaps the evening of Nick's death, the associations with the morgue, and Robbins and Brass, he wasn't sure. But even that didn't quite cover it.

He didn't care about work now. Work was work -- it would be there when he returned, if he returned. There were others, capable, meticulous others, who could fill in in his absence. The truth was that he was in no way irreplaceable. None of them were. As impossible as it sometimes seemed, things could and did go on. And he no longer wanted to be privy to that, to know that things were, in fact, proceeding. He preferred the stasis of this house, the quiet, the solitude. Here, what was left of Nick could stay, if Gil wished it. He could keep Nick's things, preserve those remnants of not only Nick's life but often of his own, as well, and there was no one to tell him it was foolish, or a form of denial. Just himself.

He considered a worn tee shirt displaying Nick's fraternity letters, and wondered if he'd ever go back to work full-time. It might be a good point in his life to do what he'd sometimes toyed with doing. Becoming a consultant, working his own hours. Thanks to Nick and his father, he had more than enough capital to support himself. He could probably live frugally on the interest alone. He didn't have to work. He could pick and choose, a lot or a little, here or elsewhere. In fact nothing tied him to Vegas any longer. He could return to California, or go northwest, or northeast. Didn't much matter now, did it?

He decided not to decide yet, and folded the tee shirt tenderly, laying it on top of a pile of its fellows.

By shortly after noon he'd cleared out the bedroom closet and made good inroads on the hallway. There were six boxes of Nick's clothes, divided by wear rather than type. Two boxes that weren't even quality enough to give away; those he sealed and put aside for a later trip to his storage space. The other four he could take to the DAV, but he'd hold off long enough to see what else accumulated.

Warrick came by at two, the kind of social call Gil had soon grown to look forward to in the weeks since his return from Dallas. "You started without me?" Warrick asked, and crossed his arms. "Man, I told you I'd help."

"I'm counting on it." Gil wiped his hands on his jeans and gestured to the desk. "Jamie went through Nick's papers while she was here. Now it all needs packing up."

"Deal."

It didn't feel as odd this time, watching someone else start opening the drawers in Nick's desk. Just a chore that needed taking care of.

"You want a sandwich? Beer?"

Warrick shook his head and stacked papers on top of the desk. "Already ate. So did Nick really like paper clips, or what?"

Gil smiled, and went to make a sandwich for himself.

Catherine arrived an hour later, with two huge pizzas, and that was so unexpected and welcome that Gil didn't even mind the stalling of their progress. They ate outside, drinking the last of Gil's cold beer, and he talked her into taking the leftovers with her for the staff. "This much?" She snorted. "Greg'll eat this by himself."

"That's all right," Gil said mildly.

Warrick belched ringingly and unapologetically, and stood up. "Better get back to it."

After he went inside, Catherine glanced over at Gil. "You should call Jim," she told him gently.

He met her gaze only briefly, and went back to studying the paper on his beer bottle. "I know."

"He's hurting. He -- hasn't gotten over it, not yet." She sighed. "Not that anyone has," she added softly. "But Jim, you know, he loved Nick, too, in his own way. Thought the world of him."

"Yes, he did." Gil drank a tiny sip of beer. "I haven't been ready, I don't think."

"He thinks you blame him."

Maybe I do, Gil thought, and then shook his head. No. Try as he might, he'd never been able to lay this at Jim Brass's feet. It had been fast and ugly and unstoppable, even if Jim had been two feet away instead of two tenths of a mile. The shotgun blast that had taken Nick's life might have been one of two, had Jim been there. Gil might be mourning more than one person now. No. None of it was anyone's fault but the cranked-up teenager's who'd pulled the trigger. And even he was so unquestionably under the influence, it became at best an academic point. None of the finger-pointing would bring Nick back to life.

"I'll go see him. I will."

"Thanks."

"How's Lindsey?"

"She's fine. Busy with soccer."

The small talk felt good. He felt good. Relaxed, kicking back on the patio, belly full, beer tart and cold on his tongue. Maybe it was all right to feel good again. Wouldn't last. But he was grateful for the moment.

All too soon it was over. Catherine left with promises of returning in a few days, and a plea to Gil to call her if he needed anything. Gil shut the door behind her and went to check on Warrick's progress.

"Tell you, this is a nice desk." Warrick was seated on the floor, lap filled with various things he was sorting through.

Gil glanced over and nodded. "He already had that when he moved in. I'm not sure where he got it. You want it?"

Warrick paused, staring at him. "Do I want it?"

"Sure. I've already got my desk. As far as I know that desk has no sentimental value for his family, or his brother or sister would have said something to me when I asked." He shrugged. "I'm happy if you can find some use for it."

Warrick was silent for a moment, and then nodded awkwardly. "Yeah, I mean. I could use it. You bet."

"Then it's yours."

"If you change your mind –"

"I don't think I will."

"But I mean, you know. If you want it back sometime. Just say."

Gil smiled faintly. "All right."

"Thanks, man."

"Any time."

It was some time later, when Warrick was wiggling the top left drawer, that Nick's desk presented another minor mystery.

"Stuck," Warrick said, on his knees, peering beneath the drawer. "Got something jammed up in there."

Gil walked over. "If I hold up the drawer, can you reach it?"

"Not unless I got flat fingers."

"I'll get a coat hanger."

Using the bent hanger, with Gil holding up the drawer as high as it would go inside the runners, Warrick finally chivvied out the object, which turned out to be a wad of mangled duct tape wrapped around a key.

"What kind of key?" Gil asked, frowning and hunkering down next to Warrick.

"Not sure. Looks like a locker key, maybe." Warrick handed it over. "Had it taped to the bottom of the drawer?"

Gil turned the key over in his fingers. "Locker, or safety-deposit box." He met Warrick's questioning eyes. "I have no idea."

* * *

Going to the lab felt odd, in spite of the fact he still worked a couple of nights a week. Perhaps because this visit was unofficial, and he was only looking for one person. 

He found him outside the DNA lab, in conversation with Greg. Both men glanced at him with similar surprised expressions.

"Hi, Jim," Gil said mildly. "Got a minute?"

Brass met his eyes and nodded. "Sure," was his slow reply. "Gimme just a sec."

"I'll be in my office."

Down the hallway, he stood in his own doorway for a moment, looking around. Would he stay here? The prospect of emptying this crowded room of all his things was daunting. And yet he couldn't stay, not if his nebulous plans for consulting began to firm up.

He was seated at his desk, desultorily checking three days' worth of email, when Brass walked in. "You rang?"

"Hi. Know what this is?"

He held out the key, and Brass took it, frowning slightly. "Too small for a house key, or motor vehicle. Locker, maybe."

"That's not a locker number on it. At least it doesn't appear to be."

"Maybe a safety-deposit box?"

Gil nodded slowly. "My leading suspect."

Brass sat down, but didn't relax, his expression uncomfortably reserved. "You working tonight?"

"No. But yesterday Warrick and I found that key, taped to the underside of one of Nick's desk drawers."

Even in the relatively gentle light of his office, he saw the spasm of pain ripple over Brass's bluff features, before disappearing behind the usual stoicism. The memory of that quick agony made Gil's stomach clench with helpless sympathy. Catherine was correct, as usual. This man was carrying a huge load on his back, and that burden was worse for the fact that it was unnecessary. Nick's death hadn't been Jim's fault. Gil felt like the worst kind of callous sadist for not doing his best to allay that guilt before now.

"Nick have any bank boxes you know of?" Brass sounded hoarse, and he laid the key on the desk as if he'd touched something loathsome.

"Nothing I'm aware of. Do you have any ideas how I might find out where this key fits?"

With a shrug Brass visibly slumped. "The usual ways, I guess. Check with his bank, see what they say. Wherever he had accounts." He produced a leaden smile, chilling in its utter humorlessness. "I'm no expert on locksmithing," he added after a moment. "A fact you no doubt know. Why ask me?"

Gil made himself smile, too, and hoped it wasn't as dead an expression as Jim's. "Ulterior motives. I'd like to invite you to dinner."

It clearly wasn't what Brass expected. His eyes widened, then narrowed. "Now? Tonight?"

"Nothing fancy. How about Luigi's? Pasta sound good?"

Luigi's had been a favorite of Nick's, too, but before Nick had even moved to Las Vegas it had been Brass who introduced Gil to the small, dim trattoria. Early days, when most conversations culminated with arguments, Jim's volatile nature crashing sometimes bitterly against the high wall of Grissom's unflappable intellect. Brass had mellowed since then, and in fairness, Gil had seen more than one instance where his own vaunted follow-the-dots method skewed sometimes violently to one end or another. And it had been Luigi's where he and Brass mended fences over past differences. What better place?

Some flavor of the same thoughts, he knew, were occurring to Jim as well, who slowly nodded. "Sure. But you're buying."

* * *

Brass ordered linguine alla vongole, but only picked at his food. Gil tasted his wine, and felt a ripple of sadness, not only at why they were there but what had taken away Jim's appetite, what had stepped between them weeks ago. 

"What did you want to talk about?" Brass set his fork on his plate and reached for his own seltzer.

"Anything, nothing. I haven't seen much of you lately. I wanted to change that."

Brass kept his glass in his hand, regarding it with distant interest. "You doing okay?" he asked gruffly.

Gil nodded. "I'm all right, I think. I won't say it's been easy. You of all people know that isn't so. But I'm coping." He put down his own utensils and paused. "How about you?"

"Fine."

"Catherine spoke to me."

"Figures." Brass's mouth turned down in an unhappy scowl. "What'd she say?"

"Nothing I couldn't figure out on my own, once I opened my eyes." Gil sighed. "What happened to Nick wasn't your fault, Jim."

Brass nodded once, lips pursed. "I know."

"Do you?"

"Yeah. I do." A painful pause, and when Gil refused to add anything, Jim said, "But I was there. I could have –"

"What could you have done?" Gil asked flatly. "Stopped Ramos from pulling that trigger? Pushed Nick out of the way? Taken the shot yourself? From a quarter of a mile away?" He shook his head, fighting down a spasm of old, tired pain of his own. "It was a terrible thing, yes. And don't think a moment goes by – a single goddamn moment of each and every day – when I don't wish with all my heart and soul that it hadn't been Nick out there with that kid. But I know as well as I know anything else that it wasn't your fault. Blame the people who made the crank Hector Ramos took that night. Blame anyone, anything, but don't take it on yourself."

For a very long moment Brass didn't reply. When he finally did, it was in a voice Gil barely recognized. "It was open and shut, you know?" Low, husky, tight with something Gil slowly realized was unshed tears. "The case me and Nicky were working. That trip, it was just tying up loose ends. And that kid came out of motherfucking nowhere, Gil. Nowhere at all."

It occurred to him that he didn't want to hear this. He'd never heard Brass's version of events, and that was because he had never wanted to, never wanted to hear about Nick's last living moments on earth. But the companion thought was there, as well. Brass needed to tell him. And maybe, in spite of the pain, Gil needed to hear it.

"Go on," he said softly.

It didn't take long to tell. Their food was cold and mostly untouched, and later on Gil paid with a rueful smile.

"I was talking to the wife, you know. The alibi. And she was caving. You could see it in her eyes, all the time she's saying Yes, I was here, yes, I saw him, inside she knew we had her. Nick's off looking at the car. I didn't give it a second thought." His voice thickened to a harsh croak. "He's walked away a hundred times like that, all of you have, and as long as the site's secure I never cared."

"As far as you knew, it was secure."

"Except it wasn't."

Gil gave a slow, even nod. "No. Not this time."

"I could see her, about to change her story. Finally give it up. And I heard the shot. I mean, I remember it. She jumped, but I jumped higher. Had my sidearm in my hand before I ever thought about it, just automatic, you know? But the shot wasn't hubby, trying to fix the problem of the cop on his doorstep. It was off to the right, way off."

Brass cleared his throat. No professional distance in his eyes now; they were red and watery, and his face was deathly pale but for hot red patches on both cheeks. "I saw the kid first," he said waveringly. "Ramos. Waving that shotgun around. I didn't think, you know, I just fired. Got him in the shoulder, flipped him over on his back. He was laughing," he croaked, and reached for his water again. A sip, and he repeated, "Laughing."

He felt dizzy. As if the room's walls were pushing inward, down, or a big hand pressing on the top of his head.

"I started yelling for Nick, and he doesn't say anything. I mean, I knew. I knew right then. But I kept telling myself, maybe he just wounded him, maybe that shot went wild and he conked Nicky over the head with the shotgun, something. Except right then I knew it was bullshit, I'm running and I'm thinking all this. There's this building, they put –"

He broke off, and this time Gil reached out, clasping his fingers over Brass's wrist. "Don't," he said in a voice as gravelly as Brass's own. "Don't put yourself through it." Don't put me through it.

"You know what I thought about, when I saw him?" The red splotches were gone; Brass was deathly pale. "I thought about you. I thought, How will I ever make this up to Gil? Because I knew, you know, I knew what he – was to you. You were to each other. I saw all that. I knew."

After a moment Gil gave a tired nod. "I know you did, Jim," he whispered.

Brass swallowed convulsively. "All I could think was, how do you say you're sorry for something like this? Sorry? Doesn't even start to cut it. I don't know where to start."

Squeezing his wrist, Gil said, "I guess you start where we are now."

Brass met his eyes, gave a short nod. His too-cold hand covered Gil's, briefly, a short sharp squeeze. "Yeah," he rasped. "Guess so. Excuse me."

Gil watched him make his hunched way to the men's room, and then slowly drew his hand back, laced his fingers together. When the waiter appeared to take their plates, frowning at the uneaten portions, Gil ordered coffee and brandy for both of them. They arrived before Jim returned, eyes redder and puffier, but something restored in his step.

"Good thinking," he said softly, resuming his seat. He lifted his snifter. "What do we toast?"

Gil picked up his brandy. "To Nick, of course," he said, and smiled. "Who we both love, and miss."

Brass swallowed, but nodded gallantly. "To Nick."

The brandy tasted warm and sweet, burning all the way down. Gil regarded his glass, and then grinned. "You remember his first night working?"

Brass snorted. "I remember being amazed he came back the second night."

"No thanks to either of us, I don't think."

For the first time in too long, he heard Jim Brass laugh. An anemic chuckle, but Gil was more than willing to accept it. "You never know, Gil," Jim said.

* * *


	4. Four

**Afterlife**

**By EB**

**©2004**

**Chapter Four**

Nearly a week went by before he did anything with the key. It stayed in the pottery dish by the door, along with his extra set of keys and what had been a third set, then Nick's set, and now his third set again, and a heaped pile of assorted change, after-dinner mints, and old gas receipts.

It wasn't that he forgot it, as such, but shortly after his careful fence-mending with Jim Brass, a case came up that yanked him out of his post-funeral stasis, a puzzling, interesting case, and after six days of overtime and far too much coffee, he re-emerged feeling pleasantly exhausted, fulfilled in a way he belatedly recognized as perfectly familiar. He loved his work. Had perhaps lost sight of that lately, but now he remembered. It was _fun_. With all its quirks and its glimpses into the worst the human psyche could offer, it was nevertheless the professional equivalent of the roller coasters he so loved, and now he was admittedly tired, but rejuvenated at the same time.

He came home late on a Monday morning, fresh off nearly 48 hours of nonstop fact-chasing, and saw the key. The pain was there -- needle-thin icicle sliding easily into his heart -- but for the moment, at least, he could handle it.

He tossed the contents of his pockets into the dish, and took out the key. Time to find out what Nick felt was so important it should be hidden away.

A call to the bank he and Nick had both patronized turned up nothing much. Their area branch had no safety-deposit boxes at all. For that, the clerk told him, he'd have to go to the main branch downtown. But the subsequent conversation with that bank was equally fruitless.

"We do have safety-deposit boxes, of course," the woman said in a distracted-sounding voice. "But none of our keys are numbered."

"I see."

"Sorry I couldn't help, sir."

He replaced the receiver, and pondered it. In the midst of calling around, his curiosity had been more than piqued; the urge to know what this key opened had become more of a distinct need. It was Nick's, and no matter what it was, he wanted it, wanted to have everything that had belonged to Nick, had been important to him.

After a few minutes he opened his hanging-file drawer and flipped through the few files he'd retained from Nick's desk. Hadn't Jamie said she'd found bank books for several other accounts? The key could easily be from one of those banks instead.

The file obediently revealed three accounts: one savings, one checking, and one money-market. He automatically dismissed the money market account; Nick was hardly likely to keep anything at a brokerage firm. But the other two were worth a shot.

And like the old saying, third time was the charm. Nick's key, it appeared, opened a safety-deposit box at the main branch of Cooverton Bank and Trust, an old-school bank where Gil had had his first account, back in the salad days of his tenure in Las Vegas. He'd quickly grown tired of inflated fees, and moved to First National, where he remained to date, but he remembered the marble Cooverton edifice.

An hour later, showered and shaved and no longer tired at all, he parked his vehicle in the massive parking lot and went inside. It took half an hour, obedient showing of the will and Nick's death certificate, and two separate discussions with bank officers before he was grudgingly told that yes, as executor of Nick's estate he did have custody of whatever lay inside that box. Feeling guilty as a thief caught red-handed, he followed the stiff-backed woman to the vault, and held the box until she finally left him in peace.

In a curtained alcove he opened Nick's safety-deposit box.

At first he thought it was nothing much. Money, banded stacks of tens and twenties. More than he'd have expected Nick to keep handy: several thousand, at least. A battered address book; what meaning did that have?

Underneath was a heavy 8 ½ by 11" envelope. His hands trembled slightly when he picked it up.

No. If he was going to go through all this, it would be at home, in private, and not in this austere little cubicle. If Nick had secrets – and he was growing more certain by the minute that Nick did in fact have those – this wasn't the place to uncover them.

Besides the letter-sized envelope, there was a sheaf of papers inside a manila folder. The title for Nick's SUV lay on the bottom, startling in its very ordinariness. Gil left the money and the title, took the papers, book, and envelope, and returned the closed box to the unsmiling bank officer.

* * *

At the house, he poured a hefty jigger of brandy and sipped it for courage. He was tired now, feeling the stress of nearly two solid days of investigative work, but more than that, raw tension. If Nick had wanted him to know about the contents of that box – of the box's existence at all – he would have told him. He hadn't, and Gil had no idea what that meant. Was this something he even wanted to know? A million possibilities had come and gone in his mind during the drive home. Nick was not a secretive man, not by nature. It was out of character, wildly so. 

A sharp spasm of grief curled in his belly. He wanted to ask Nick. Why the secrecy, why could you not trust me with whatever this is?

But there was no one to ask. He drank off the rest of the brandy and sat down, pulling the envelope over.

When he upended it, a lot of things fell out. And for a very long moment he just sat and stared, because to say that it was unexpected was to not even come close to the level of surprise he felt.

Nick's envelope was like something out of a Robert Ludlum novel. Gil felt an absurd giggle rising in his throat, and squelched it with difficulty. Three passports, none of them American. Two Canadian, one Swiss. Driver's licenses, two, one international, the other Texas. Credit cards, half a dozen. And folded neatly in half, a birth certificate.

The Swiss passport, and one of the Canadian, had Nick's photographs in them. But the names weren't Nick Stokes. It was harder not to laugh now, and yet his belly felt flash-frozen with shock, bordering on horror. What in the everlasting FUCK?

He opened the third passport and saw his own picture, and recoiled sharply.

His name was changed, as well. Samuel Williston. Tongue in cheek: Williston had been a noted 19th-century dipterist. Nick's inside joke, maybe? Gil wasn't laughing now. The urge to giggle had become something else entirely.

What was this? The work itself was variable; he recognized the Swiss passport as fake, although not entirely shoddy stuff. Cheap, though. And old; the expiration date was only six years from now. Nick must have gotten it not long after his arrival in Las Vegas. The Canadian passports were far better, and the one for Gil – or Dr. Williston – was even higher quality than Nick's. Or should he say, Brian's, since Nick's name was nowhere to be found.

Nick had a full alternate identity for himself, and most of a second, along with a partial for Gil. Expensive, completely illegal, and utterly unfathomable.

Just having the items piled on his desk made him feel obscurely nervous. He put everything back in the envelope and then sat motionless, his mind reeling. A hundred scenarios came and went, each more lurid than the last. Nick had been in trouble. Nick had been unaccountably paranoid. Nick had done something illegal, and felt the need to cover his tracks. Prepare for outlandish contingencies. Read too many Tom Clancy novels.

But one fact remained without question: Nick had died, violently, less than two months ago. Could his death have been connected with whatever reason he'd had for accumulating thousands of dollars' worth of false identification? How so? The shooting had been random, the perpetrator a nineteen-year-old boy so messed up on methamphetamines that he might have thought he was shooting Saddam Hussein instead of a nice clean-cut Texan.

His stomach was churning on the shot of brandy. He got up and walked stiffly to the bathroom, taking out antacids and chewing up four.

He'd never seen Hector Ramos in the aftermath of the shooting. He hadn't wanted to see him, had been afraid of what he might do if he did see him. Nick's teenage killer, who'd spent six days in the hospital afterward, thanks to Jim Brass's bullet; who'd been arraigned and scheduled for trial on charges of manslaughter; who was now out on bail.

He stared at his reflection in the mirror without really seeing it. It was time to look into the circumstances of Nick's death. Perhaps long overdue.

* * *

"I knew you'd do this." 

He gazed at her. "Do what?"

Catherine sighed and leaned back in her chair. Her tiny office smelled pleasantly of vanilla, and he saw a new picture of Lindsey on her desk. "What you're doing," she replied evenly. "Asking about Ramos."

"I'm not questioning your conclusions, Catherine. I simply – wanted to know more."

"More about what? It's open and shut. You want a copy of my report? It's all there. I'm not hiding anything from you."

"No, I know that. But if you could go over it with me. That's all I'm asking." He found an awkward half-smile on his face. "As a friend."

Her reproachful look said she recognized a lame-ass manipulative move when she saw one, but would refrain from actually saying it out loud. "All right," she said reluctantly. "What do you want to know?"

"What was he doing there? Nick and Brass were finishing up the Jimenez investigation. Totally unrelated."

"It's a nasty neighborhood. You know that."

"Was it Ramos's neighborhood?"

Catherine gazed at him, and finally said, "No. Not specifically. He lives further east. But that doesn't mean anything, Gil. What are you trying to say? Don't pull this shit on me; tell me."

"I don't know," Gil admitted, shaking his head. "Maybe nothing. I have a funny feeling about it, that's all."

"Of course you do." Her voice softened. "He was your partner. Your lover. And a goddamn druggie blew his head off."

He flinched and looked away. "Jesus, Catherine."

"Ramos doesn't even remember doing it. He doesn't remember getting shot himself."

"What does he remember?" He forced himself to look at her again. "Did he say?"

She shrugged and picked up a pen, clicking it mindlessly. "He says," she replied slowly, "that he remembers that afternoon. He was coming down, hard, and all he wanted was to score. He borrowed the money from his cousin. I'm assuming that's an euphemism for 'stole it.' After that, nothing, until two days later, when he was already recovering from surgery."

"Brass told me Nick wandered off. What was he looking for?"

Catherine spread her hands wide. "We weren't ever sure of that. Gil, it was his case. An old one. Brass was still playing catch-up, remember?"

Nodding, Gil said, "The McPherson case. Nick worked it earlier this year. New evidence came up."

"Right. Rick McPherson, accused in February of engineering a business partner's death. His alibi was his wife, Cheryl; she said he was with her the night of the accident. Valentine's. PD got a call from someone who said he had seen McPherson at the scene."

"But Jim said Nick was looking at the car."

"Nick was still sure that car was the one that hit the partner."

"Was it?"

"Never could prove it. There had been plenty of time for the suspect to get the car repaired."

Gil nodded slowly. "So what happened with the witness?"

"Nothing. He disappeared. And then there was the fire, and that pretty much closed the case, permanently this time."

"Fire?"

"You were – out of town." She shifted in her chair, making a face. "The McPherson's house burned down. Fire marshal said it was faulty wiring in the air-conditioning unit. Mr. and Mrs. McPherson never had a chance. I can show you the autopsy reports if you want."

He looked at her so long she finally shifted again, this time glaring at him. "What? You're looking at me as if I'm not telling you something. That's it, that's all, Gil. There isn't anything else."

"Where's Hector Ramos?"

"Right now? Wait a minute. No, you don't –"

"I just want to speak with him. That's all."

"Gil, there are so many reasons why that's a bad idea, it would take me until next week to list them all." Catherine leaned forward, placing her hands flat on the desk top. "It's an open and shut case," she said distinctly. "And you going and harassing the guy will not help. Get it? Look, if our positions were reversed, I know good and goddamn well you'd be saying the same thing I am."

He allowed a faint smile. "I'm sure I would." He uncrossed his legs and stood. "Thanks for your time."

She sighed. "And what I just said didn't make spit worth of difference, did it?"

"Of course it did."

"But it won't stop you."

He was already walking out the door.

* * *

The department's computer obediently spat out Hector Ramos's physical address. One of the perks of supervisory status: Even if you had no official business to do, your particular password gave you access to everything. 

He tucked the printout in his pocket.

Forty minutes later he pulled up in front of the indicated house. Just one more small building in a neighborhood of small, run-down buildings. This area was painfully poor: postage-stamp-sized lawns brown from lack of expensive water, roofs in obvious need of repair. Ramos's home was much like its fellows, once painted gaily pink, now faded to a sort of sickly flesh tone, like a washed-out photograph. A brand-new Ford F250 sat in state in the driveway. Gil frowned, seeing it, and opened the gate to walk to the door.

A woman about his own age answered the door, her dark eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Si?"

"Busco a Hector Ramos. ¿Está aquí?"

"Si," she said slowly. "¿Usted policía?"

"No, trabajo para el Las Vegas Crime Lab. Deseo solamente hacer algunas preguntas."

The woman – he assumed Ramos's mother, although he could be wrong – gave a stiff nod. "Okay. Hector!" she called over her shoulder. "¡El policía!

He waited on the doorstep while a muttered conversation went on inside, and then a boy opened the screen. His expression was the same as his mother's: shuttered, suspicious. He would have been a nice-looking kid if not for the acne pocking his features. He was very thin, and his tee shirt and battered jeans hung on him, made for someone four sizes larger. His right arm was in a sling, and white bandages peeked from under the collar of his shirt.

Out of nowhere, rage slammed into him. This – this CHILD – had killed Nick. Fried on so much crystal meth he'd probably been awake for two weeks, laughing as if it had been FUN, and Gil was going to TALK to him? The little shit.

"You a cop?"

Gil shook his head. "Crime Lab," he managed through gritted teeth. "I wanted to ask you a few questions."

Instead of asking him inside, Ramos nodded and came out on the porch. His uncasted hand shoved deep in his pocket, he glanced furtively around. "So ask, man. But I ain't gonna change nothin'."

"I understand you don't remember a lot of what happened the night of August 3rd."

"I remember some."

"Tell me?"

"What's this, man? You don't talk to the other guys?"

A renewed flare of rage exploded in his belly. "Just answer the question," Gil spat.

His tone got him a wary look, and a short nod. "Yeah, okay."

"Do you remember shooting N -- Mr. Stokes?"

Ramos sucked on his lower lip, visibly deflating. "Not that part."

"After? Do you remember getting shot?"

A snort. "Yeah, I remember that. Hurt, man." He reached up automatically to touch his right shoulder.

Do you think Nick felt it? Did it hurt him, too? Did he know, at all? The fury in his stomach had become nausea, too, roiling angrily. "What else do you remember?"

"Just the blood, you know? Other shit."

"But not the -- shooting."

Something flickered over Ramos's acne-scarred features, something young and scared and confused. "They said I done it," he whispered. "But I don't remember."

"What were you doing there? Is that where you usually go? To buy drugs?"

"No, man." Ramos shook his head vigorously. "Nowhere near."

"So?"

With another nervous look around, Ramos gave a one-shouldered shrug. "I was just doin' somebody a favor, that's all. No big."

His head was echoing emptily. It was terribly hard to focus. "A favor?" Gil asked thickly. "Who?"

"Just this guy. Friend of mine, you know? He had to be someplace, and he asked me could I fill in for him."

Gil looked away, out into the street. The urge to either walk away or strangle the kid where he stood was nearly overwhelming. "I see. And your friend will back you up?"

"Ain't seen him since then. Heard he went up to Reno."

"What was the favor?"

Ramos didn't answer, and finally, reluctantly, Gil looked at him again. His hands were ice-cold. "Tell me," he said woodenly.

"Just supposed to go someplace. Since Johnny couldn't."

Gil swallowed. "Someplace? 45th and Cornell, maybe?"

"I don't remember." The anxiety in Ramos's face grew easier to see. "A black car. That's it, man, that's all I remember. Some guy. I mean, Johnny said I'd get some money, you know? He knew I needed it, needed to make some purchases, and this guy was gonna set me up with it if I'd do what Johnny was supposed to do. Only I dunno what that was." He looked away, chewing busily on his upper lip. "Next thing I know, I shot the other guy. Don't even remember that. But I done it. Right?"

You don't remember it. You don't remember putting the barrel of a shotgun to the nape of Nick's neck, and pulling the trigger. You don't remember murdering the best goddamn thing that ever happened to me.

How could you FORGET that? How is it not burned in your memory for all time, like it is, mine? What kind of subhuman monster ARE you?

Red flashes pulsed in his vision. "Yes, you did," Gil said in a thick voice. "You k- killed him."

"I didn't want to kill nobody," Ramos whispered. His color had gone; he looked green now, horrified. "Man, you gotta believe that. Whatever I done, it was the fucking drugs. I swear to God."

"Where did you get the shotgun? Was it yours?"

Ramos shook his head. "I don't got a gun. Sure no shotgun."

"But your prints were all over it. You must have gotten it from somewhere."

"I don't remember."

"Well, what DO you remember?" Gil snarled. "You don't remember the gun, or why you were there – do you remember Nick? You remember blowing his goddamn HEAD off? Does that ring any bells?"

Ramos drew back several steps, his back pressed against the screen door. "Maybe I oughta call my lawyer," he said shakily. "I told you, man, I don't remember that part."

"Sure you don't." Gil stared at him, spots like solar flares in his peripheral vision. "How nice for you."

"I ain't got nothin' more to say. You wanna talk to me, you call my lawyer, man."

The screen door slapped shut, and a half-second later the door slammed. Distantly Gil heard a bolt being shot, as well.

After a very long moment, he turned stiffly and made his way back to the truck. His muscles ached as if he'd just run ten miles.

Inside the truck, he waited for the pulsing in his vision to stop, and then turned the key in the ignition.

* * *


	5. Five

**Afterlife**

**By EB**

**©2004**

**Chapter Five**

"Sometimes I want to kick your stubborn ass."

Gil smiled faintly and kept on clicking his mouse button, scrolling down. "Nice to see you, too, Jim."

Brass sighed. "I'm surprised you didn't throw a punch while you were at it."

"I considered it."

"What the fuck were you thinking? Gil, you had no business going to Ramos's house. We'll be lucky if he doesn't file harassment charges."

Gil's smile slipped. "I didn't harass him," he said, glancing at Brass. "I asked a few questions. A few more than you or Catherine, by all appearances."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Brass sat down heavily in the other chair, brow furrowed with mixed anger and surprise.

"It means this isn't as cut and dried as you think."

"A little more detail would be appreciated."

Gil pushed the mouse away and leaned back in his chair. "Catherine told me Ramos didn't remember anything of the – incident. But when I asked him, he said he remembered a bit. He remembers you shooting him. And he remembers – the blood."

Brass nodded reluctantly. "Yeah, well, that adds up to pretty much nothing, if you ask me. Tell me he remembers what he did, and I'll get excited."

"So I asked him what he was doing there. Whether or not this was a regular hangout for him. He said no, that he'd never been in that particular area before."

"Probably lying. What difference does it make? I was there, Gil. I saw him."

"You saw him. But you didn't see the shooting." Gil leaned forward and took off his glasses. "Where'd he get the gun? It wasn't his."

"So he says. His prints tell another story."

"Prints, whatever." Gil waved his hand and didn't miss Brass's faintly shocked look. "Picking something up isn't the same as owning it. And shotguns aren't likely to just be lying on the ground, waiting for someone to come along."

Instead of looking angry or frustrated, Brass's expression had changed to one of distinct unease. "Gil, listen to yourself," he said after a pause. "What are you doing here?"

Gil lifted his chin. "Investigating Nick's death."

"From where I sit it sounds like you're grasping at straws. And for what? Does it matter where Ramos got the shotgun? He still pulled the trigger. And good thing I'm a decent shot, or he'd have probably blown me away while he was at it. The kid was out of his mind, so cranked up he was barely walking. And you think it's sinister that he doesn't remember shooting Nick? Christ, he probably wouldn't have recognized his own mother that day."

Gazing at him, Gil said, "A man in a black car."

"Huh?"

"Ramos said he was doing a favor for a friend. Johnny. Johnny, whom he hasn't seen since the – incident." He cleared his throat. "He remembers a man in a black car."

Brass leaned back, bring up a hand to rub his eye. "For God's sake, **I** drive a black car, you drive a black car. What the hell does –"

"I don't know. But I plan to find out."

"Okay, Gil, let's just put all the cards on the table. All right?" Brass laced his fingers together. "You're losing it. You're jumping at shadows, grasping at straws. The truth is this: You lost your partner two months ago. And you're looking for anything to keep from thinking about how much you miss him."

Stung, Gil recoiled. "Since when did you start practicing psychology?"

"Since you turned into a goddamn loose cannon, that's when," Brass snapped. "Nicky's dead, Gil," he added harshly, pointedly. "Look, I hate saying it, and I know you hate hearing it. But you buried him last month. You think this -–whatever it is – will bring him back? Huh?"

Gil licked his dry lips. "No," he whispered. "No, I don't."

"There might have been a guy in a black car. Sure. Okay. I can go with that. Some guy, who was probably Ramos's dealer, set him up with the shit he was on when he drew a bead on Nick."

"And the shotgun?"

"Could have bought it while he was flying, or stole it. He doesn't remember much else; why would he remember doing that?"

It was logical. It was terribly rational. Gil nodded. "Maybe."

Brass blew a frustrated sigh and flung his hands up. "Maybe? Yeah. A lot more plausible than whatever goddamn conspiracy theory you're cooking up, I'll tell you that much. You're making this complicated, and it isn't. Sometimes things really are exactly what they appear to be. The simplest explanation works."

Gil gave a stiff nod. "Occam's razor?"

"I dunno, Santa's toothbrush, whatever, but what I do know is that you're asking for trouble, Gil. You want to be suspended? You keep pushing at this case, you're asking for censure. And you know it."

"Your opinion," Gil said icily, "is duly noted."

The look Brass gave him wasn't angry. Just tired, and deeply sad, and something else, something anxious and caring. Something he desperately wanted not to see. "Okay, Gil," Brass said finally. "Have it your way. You look tired. Get some rest, okay?"

Gil gave a stiff nod and said nothing, waiting for him to leave.

* * *

He made it the rest of the night without doing anything too irrational. It was a near thing, though. The take-it-or-leave-it work attitude he'd felt not so long ago was back, and nothing at the lab seemed fully three-dimensional. All flat surface gloss, no substance. None of it mattered, really. None of it changed anything. 

He was gathering his things to leave when Catherine stopped by.

"Heard Brass had a few things to say about your visit with Hector Ramos."

Her voice held no accusation in it, only a weird kind of sympathy for which he had absolutely no patience. He turned sharply, fixing her with a stare. "And I've already heard your opinion on it, so why don't we just drop it?"

Her hands came up, a defensive gesture. She even backed up a step. "Whoa there. Sorry if I reminded you of something you'd rather not remember. But it's my case, all right? Not yours. I do have a vested interest here."

"Not as much as I do," he said immediately, not without some satisfaction. "Never as much as I do."

"Jesus, Gil. You think you're the only one suffering? You think you cornered the market on grieving for Nick?" There were tears in her eyes, out of nowhere, and he hated them, loathed them and her with a sudden ferocity that took him completely by surprise. "I miss him, too, you know that?" she added, shaking her head. "I miss him so goddamn bad. But he's gone, Gil, he isn't coming back."

And just like that, he felt everything fall apart. Curious, how a small part of him sat back, observing, noting the way he wheeled around, turned on her as if she were the enemy, not Ramos, not death itself. Just Catherine.

"I KNOW he's gone!" he bellowed. "God DAMN it, as if you have to REMIND me!"

"Gil, for God's –"

"Why does everyone have to say it? Would you tell me that? You've got all the answers, Catherine, you tell me why you and Brass feel you need to say it over and over again, Nick is DEAD, Nick is GONE!" He drew a whooping gulp of air. "Do you think I hadn't NOTICED? I know! I know I will never, ever see him again! So would you all stop REMINDING me?"

Catherine had backed all the way to the door. Now she gave a slow, minuscule nod. "Sure, Gil," she whispered. "I won't mention it again."

Oddly, her soft tone made him feel frantic, cornered. He gulped another lungful of air, but it didn't help. "I just want to understand, that's all," he said unsteadily. "That's all I want. To understand. Why."

Her expression crumpled, but she didn't say anything. Just watched him while he gathered up his things, and got out of the way when he headed for the door.

* * *

There were things he needed to do. Lingering questions, leads that demanded follow-up. But he drove straight home, jaw clenched over simmering anger. Nothing he was doing was that out of character, or indeed so unprofessional. It hadn't been him who'd missed the detail of the man in the black car. Or pursued the idea that Ramos wasn't supposed to even be in the neighborhood where Nick had been shot. It had been the very people who'd jumped all over HIM. 

Embarrassed that they hadn't gotten the whole story? It was possible. He yanked the wheel viciously around a meandering Volvo, and shot the driver the finger when he honked. Very possible.

By the time he reached the house, he was trembling with tension and fury and a restless need for action. The kitchen was filthy. Christ, he'd really gone to hell lately, hadn't he? It smelled funny. Fusty, like an old man's apartment.

What had Nick been thinking? Leaving his police companion to wander out of sight, no thought to his own safety. How many times had he done that before? How many times had it almost been the last? Amy Hendler could have been the one. Had it not been for Gil's fortuitous realization in the front yard, she would have been.

Jesus, had he had a real death wish? If so, he'd succeeded. Late, but not for lack of trying.

He bagged up garbage and twisted the ties viciously, and carted six bags to the empty dumpster before stomping back inside. Bleach. That was what the kitchen needed. Environmentally unfriendly and wonderfully sterile. God, every surface was tacky, spotted with old grime.

And the fake IDs? Nick's secrets? What about those? What was going to pop up next week? A wife Nick had never told him about? A child? Christ, maybe that gigantic life-insurance policy was the intended payoff for something. Someone.

He scrubbed until his arm ached, rinsed and then cleaned the sink just as vigorously. Better, a little. The astringent smell of bleach filled his nostrils, drove away the vague mildewy odor.

Nick hadn't had any business skulking around the garage. Six months after the fact? What sort of moron would not have had his vehicle repaired in all that time? Guilty or not, the car wasn't the route to proving it. There were better ways, safer ways. Ways that didn't involve stepping away from a cop escort and walking into a stoner's path.

It didn't have to happen. It was stupid, Christ Jesus it was abysmally stupid of him. Why? Nick might play dumb sometimes, but he wasn't, never, so why now?

He paused, and thought, as if tasting something he'd considered before and hadn't had the nerve: Nick isn't coming back. Ever. He won't walk through that door in a few minutes, a little sweaty and bitching about how it's already so hot and it's not even nine o'clock yet. He won't take his gimme cap off and show me his hair, all sticking up in the front with sweat. He won't grin and peel off his shirt right there in the foyer, because he knows I have a thing for him sweaty. That smooth skin, gleaming with sweat. He never smells bad. He smells like Nick, that gorgeous smell, and I'll never smell it again, he will never BE here again, he's dead, the part of him that made him Nick was gone even before his body finished dying on that concrete garage floor. An instant, and then his brains were spattered all over the place, they found brain matter on the WALL.

He made a harsh, coughing sound, and his flailing hand struck the open bottle of bleach, sending it toppling over and the contents gurgling down the drain. With abstract interest he thought, It's all right, I needed to run some bleach through there anyway.

And then he was sobbing and sliding down to the floor, sitting with his bleach-damp hands turned palm-up, empty.

* * *

When the time came that night to go to the lab, he didn't move. He felt vaguely ill, muscles aching, his head pounding nastily. Too ill to go. Definitely. It might be catching. 

He pulled up the coverlet and turned on his side, inhaling the scent of the pillow.

It was nearly midnight when Catherine called. Late, if he were off, but this wasn't an off night, he was simply ill. And awake when the phone rang, although lying still, relishing the stillness, the peace of it.

"I'm going to assume you aren't coming in," Catherine said, her tone a little formal.

"I'm coming down with something," he told her drowsily.

"Call me next time? I mean, we're swamped, all right?"

He nodded at the receiver, and gently hung up.

He slept dreamlessly, heavily, and awoke to sunlight and a clogged nose and a deep, throbbing ache in his thighs and calves. His throat was a tender misery. He sat up and coughed dryly, and slowly fumbled for his house shoes.

Later he thought there was something just about his getting sick then. As if his body had decided to reflect his state of mind. Sick at heart, as the saying went, and yes, he was. So sick. Sicker than he could recall ever being.

The cold he treated with aspirin and zinc and vitamin C, sniffed and used up the remains of his solitary box of tissues before going to work on the toilet paper. In the time he and Nick had had together

thirteen months eleven days seventeen hours plus or minus

he'd never been ill, although Nick had caught first a cold, then the flu, last winter. Now he could hear Nick in his mind, as if turning the tables on him: Zinc lozenges, Gil, that's the ticket. Clear you up in no time.

He conquered the cold in a couple of days, just a case of the sniffles after that. But he didn't go back to work. Being sick had given him an excuse to sleep, to rest more than he could remember doing in his life. And getting well -- There was always the chance of a relapse, as Nick had done in December. No, better not to chance it.

Running out of toilet paper made him finally decide to go to the store. But the trip exhausted him. He slept six hours with the groceries still sitting in their bags on the kitchen counter, waiting with all patience to be properly put away.

After five days, the doorbell rang. He blinked at the clock by his bed, and when the bell sounded a second time he rolled out of bed and shambled to the door.

"Jesus," Catherine said under her breath. "You look like hell."

Gil rubbed his eyes. "I've been sick."

"I know. I brought supplies." She raised the plastic bags she carried.

"Okay," Gil mumbled. "Come on in."

He sat at the table and watched her put things away, and thought about making coffee. His throat felt much better. But he was so tired.

"Have you been eating anything at all?" Catherine frowned at the contents of his refrigerator, then at him. "You've lost weight, haven't you? How much?"

Weight? He considered it dully, and shrugged. "I don't know."

"Want some coffee? Coffee sounds good," she replied to herself. "You have anything besides whole beans?"

He shook his head.

"Figures."

While she bustled around grinding the beans and cleaning out the coffee pot, he stirred himself enough to get out milk. One sniff, and he hastily put it back, reaching in again for the half-gallon Catherine had brought him.

"Cereal?"

"In the cupboard to your left."

She took out Nick's Cheerios and sliced a banana over a bowlful before taking the milk away from him and sloshing it on top. "Here," she said brusquely, holding out the bowl, a spoon sticking out. "Eat. Put some color back in your cheeks."

Catherine ate a toasted bagel while he worked on the cereal. Funny, but once he started eating he couldn't stop. Ravenous, maybe it had been a while since he'd last bothered to have something to eat. Was it starve a cold, feed a fever, or the other way around? He could never remember.

When he refilled his bowl he caught a tiny smile on Catherine's face. It didn't feel odd to smile back. His cheeks actually felt a little hot. Not fever. Just rueful embarrassment.

Another banana, and he leaned back in his chair, stifling a belch behind his fist.

"Better?"

He nodded. "Yeah. I didn't realize I was that hungry."

"You needed food. You've probably lost ten pounds."

"That's a good thing, actually."

"Not an approved diet plan."

"Maybe not."

Her smile faded. "We missed you this week," she said after an awkward pause. "We – I," she corrected with a quick shake of her head, "was worried about you."

"I'm all right," he said automatically.

"Are you, Gil? Really?"

He met her eyes – kind look, kind woman, perhaps his closest friend, Catherine or Jim, or maybe both – and drew a careful breath. "I – fell apart," he whispered.

Her hand slid across the table, fingers gentle on his own. "I know."

"And I'm not sure I'm – together again. Yet."

"There's no timetable. Take as long as you need."

He turned his own hand palm-up, so that their fingers interlaced. "It's funny," he said in a rusty voice. "It comes in waves. You know? There are times when I think I'm really fine. And then it all – boils up."

"I saw you boiling," she said dryly. "Believe me."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry for that, you didn't deserve it."

"You've been holding a lot in. Pushing it down. But sometime these things – they gotta come up. Out. It was bound to happen."

"Still."

She gave him a sweet smile. "Apology accepted."

"How are you?"

"Me? Fine."

"Really?"

She rolled her eyes, but her fingers were tight in his. "Yes, really."

"Thanks for the groceries."

"I just got sandwich stuff, fruit, that kind of thing. You want fancy, you get your ass out of bed and get it yourself."

He chuckled and said, "That I can do."

They drank second cups of coffee in mostly silence, companionable, not uncomfortable. Finally Catherine set her mug on the table and looked squarely at him. Her smile had vanished. "You feel up to talking about some things?"

He regarded her, and nodded. "What things?"

"Hector Ramos."

He waited for a return of the rage, or that terrible lancing grief that had prostrated him in the kitchen almost a week ago. When neither came, he gave another, cautious nod. "Sure."

"911 got a call last night, to his address. When the paramedics got there Ramos was in cardiac arrest."

He gaped at her. "He –"

"Medics did their best, but he didn't respond." She sighed. "They pronounced him at Desert Palms, about ten-thirty."

He gave a tight nod. "Overdose?"

"That's Robbins' initial conclusion."

Unsteadily, Gil said, "Not so surprising, I don't suppose. He was a longtime user."

She nodded, but her grim expression deepened. "There's a wrinkle, Gil. He ODed on heroin."

"I thought he used metamphetamines. Crank."

"He did. And cocaine, I think. But there were no track marks on his arms. No skin popping, no nothing. Robbins checked pretty thoroughly."

"Sniffed it?"

"No degrading of the nasal tissues."

Gazing at her, Gil cleared his throat with difficulty. "Do you want me to say it?" he asked.

She shook her head. "You don't have to. It looks suspicious to me, and Jim agrees."

"This wasn't voluntary."

"It's early yet. But no. No, I don't think it was."

A ripple like ice water ran up his spine. He sat up very straight in his chair. "He was murdered," Gil whispered.

"It's a possibility."

He broke her stare, gazing down at the tabletop without seeing it. He closed his eyes briefly, breathing deep and slow. When he looked up, he found her watching him alertly.

"I need a shower," Gil said crisply. "And then maybe you and I and Brass should have a talk."

Catherine nodded. Her expression was utterly relieved. "Yeah," she replied. "I think so."


	6. Six

**Afterlife**

**By EB**

**©2004**

**Chapter Six**

An hour later the three of them sat in his living room, in awkward silence. Gil took a careful sip of his coffee and glanced at each of them in turn. "Are we all on the same page now?"

Catherine nodded, and Brass gave a tight shrug. "If your page says something's hinky about all this, then yeah. Yeah, we are."

"Everyone involved in any way the evening of Nick's shooting is now dead," Gil said bluntly. "The McPhersons. Hector Ramos."

"Except us," Catherine interjected.

"It still could be coincidence." Brass's features hadn't lost the mulish cast. "It's far from impossible."

"Granted. But if so, it's a hell of a coincidence."

Brass considered, then produced a nod.

"So what do we have?" Gil picked up a pad of ruled paper, clicking his pen. "Four deaths. And two people unaccounted for. The friend, Johnny, and the alleged man in the black car." He drew a little figure, an ad-hoc flow chart. "There's only one person who connects to all of these."

Catherine nodded. "Nick."

"Right. Nick's old case. PD received an anonymous tip, correct? Leading Nick and Jim to speak with the McPhersons that evening."

Brass shifted in his chair. "You think it was bogus."

Gil met his eyes squarely. "I think it was intended to place Nick at that specific location, at that time, yes."

"So you think this was a hit."

"I'm not seeing many other possibilities at this point. There are too many coincidences. A case Nick was familiar with, an unsolved case. A boy who had no business being where he was. A family killed in their own beds only a handful of days later, and the boy dead after I spoke with him?"

"What's the connection?" Catherine's eyes had taken on that light he recognized, the one that said she saw the puzzle, she was hooked. It would have delighted him, any other time. Now it only underscored his own determination. "The McPhersons were in on it? Maybe the promise of a payoff from someone?"

Gil shook his head. "They didn't need to be in on it. Only present. Whoever phoned in that tip chose that case for two reasons: unsolved, and involving Nick in the original investigation. The McPhersons were in a sense hapless victims here."

"That's still leaving a hell of a lot to chance." Brass sighed. "To figure that it would lead to Nick, alone in that garage with Ramos? No backup? Slim chance."

"Agreed. Which leads me to another admitted supposition." He cleared his throat. "How certain are you that Ramos did in fact shoot Nick?"

"I was there, Gil."

"Yes, but again: You didn't see the shooting."

Brass gave a slow nod. "True. But –"

"Ignoring Occam's razor for the moment –" Gil gave Brass a fast half-smile "—how else could it have played out? If we know there were at least two other parties involved?"

Catherine was nodding, too. "Someone else shot Nick? And then put the weapon in Ramos's hands?"

"Could be. Did you test for gunpowder residue?"

Catherine and Brass exchanged an uneasy look. "Open and shut," Brass stated gruffly. "We literally had him red-handed."

Catherine shrugged. "In any case, the hospital sent him straight to surgery. By the time we got to talk with him, it was a day later and he was totally cleaned up."

"True." Gil sighed. "I doubt I'd have done anything differently, had the circumstances not been what they are."

"So if Ramos didn't shoot Nick, who did?"

Gil leaned back, tapping his pen on the paper. "That's the real question, right there."

"That and why Nick?"

"That, too."

"I'm not saying I don't believe you," Brass said heavily. "Because it does make a cracked kind of sense. But I'm stuck on the second question. Believe me, I've taken Nick's case apart, bit by bit. I can't see anything substantive to suggest that it was part of any setup. Nor can I see any reason to suspect that there was more to it than appears."

Gil nodded. "I think you're right. I think whatever is going on here, one thing we can set to the side is any real overt meaning to the McPherson case. It was – an excuse, nothing more."

"And they died for it," Catherine muttered.

"Exactly. Of what may have been arson."

"And we're back where we started."

"Not completely. I want to know who this Johnny character is. Ramos said he'd heard he went to Reno." He glanced at Brass. "Any chance we could get some local law support from that area?"

"Oh, they'll love that," Brass replied dryly. "A junkie named Johnny. That narrows it down."

"I know. But it's a start."

Brass gave a slow nod. "Yeah, I can make a call. But I don't have to tell you we have a snowball's chance of that turning anything up. Too little to go on."

"Which means we need to pursue things more locally. It comes back to Hector's guy in the black car. What did he do? What kind of job did he have for Hector?"

"Killing Nick?"

Gil drew a careful breath. "Except we aren't entirely sure Hector DID kill Nick. In which case, maybe our black-car man set Hector up. Told him to be in that place, at that time. Hector was very open about needing money. I doubt he would have asked too many questions."

"Still just about nothing to go on," Brass told him. "Must be 100,000 black vehicles in this city. No way will we be able to tell which."

"Did he say where he met this guy?" Catherine asked. "An intersection, something?"

Gil shook his head. "No," he admitted. "Nothing so specific."

They said nothing, and after a silent moment he held up a hand. "I agree. There just isn't enough there to pursue."

"Doesn't mean we forget about it," Brass said quietly. "Just – for the moment, that ain't much."

Gil gave him a distracted nod.

"What?" Catherine leaned her elbows on the table, frowning. "You've got that look in your eye."

"It seems to me," Gil said slowly, "that we need to take a step back. See what it is we're missing here."

She made a face. "Like what?"

"On the micro level, our hands are tied. We just don't have enough concrete information to proceed. But we do have something. We know – or at least we theorize, for the moment – that this was about Nick, somehow. Correct?"

They each nodded, Catherine quicker than Brass.

"Looking for some random drug user is a needle in the haystack. But Nick's work is right here, under our noses. Every case he worked."

"That," said Catherine dryly, "is a lotta cases."

Gil nodded. "True. But we can narrow it down."

"How?"

His mouth had gone very dry. "It was early in Nick's time here. Sometime in the first year. No later than mid-1998."

"What was earlier?"

"The connection. What this is about."

Brass snorted. "And you arrived at this theory how?"

"A hunch," Gil said simply. "That's all. More than that I'm not prepared to say."

"Well, that's mysterious." Catherine narrowed her eyes, looking frustrated.

"Let me do some research first. But in the meantime, can you pull the info on any cases Nick worked his first couple of years here?"

She shrugged. "Sure. I can cross-reference. But the actual files will be in the dungeon by now."

"A list will suffice for the moment. Names, dates. That's all I need."

"You're being awfully cryptic."

He gave a faint smile. "Bear with me. I'll explain when I understand it myself."

* * *

After they left, he went into his study and sat down at his desk. His heart was beating too fast for walking a few feet, and his hands had gotten cold. With fingers that shook a little, he reached into the bottom drawer and took out Nick's old appointment book. 

He hadn't looked at it yet, not closely. A cursory glance, nothing more. Now he opened it carefully. 1998. In January of that year Nick would have celebrated his fourth month on the job, if celebrate were the right word. Ed Blake had still been alive then, hadn't he? The car accident that had killed him and his family had happened around Easter, that year. And Warrick had joined their ranks a couple of months later.

The book was heavily marked in Nick's small, painfully neat hand. Gil swallowed a twinge of sadness, seeing that draftman's handwriting. So familiar.

Impatiently he began flipping through the pages. Even back then, Nick had the same habits, writing just about everything in his Daytimer. He called it his brain, didn't he? Said he couldn't remember to tie his shoes unless he wrote it down. Gil had never been more thankful for Nick's painstaking nature.

January was unrevealing. Nick hadn't put much in his book about any casework, although there were two meetings with Brass, one written so comparatively messily that Gil could imagine Nick had been pissed off when he did it. No surprise; that was a rough winter for Jimbo. Divorce, custody angst. He'd been just about impossible to work with, and hadn't improved for a good eighteen months or so.

Dentist appointment, church functions, birthdays. Nick never forgot to send someone a card. Now Gil saw why.

But none of it was getting him any closer to his hunch. He paged forward, scanning February. Nick had had a date for Valentine's. Someone named Monica. He'd never mentioned her to Gil. Well, guess that one hadn't gone all that spectacularly well. Her loss had been Gil's gain, even if it took a few years to materialize.

In March, nothing much. He'd testified at a couple of trials. Three separate meetings with the then-DA, Johanssen. Must have been a hot case. Was this it? But if so, the actual casework would have been late 1997. No. Not likely.

It went on like that. He was bleary-eyed and the small flicker of hope had died to an ember by the time he came to October. The 2nd, just the initials, E.S., and a time. 8:00. A.m. or p.m.? But Nick wrote out names. He'd written just about everything out before. Why the initials?

The back of the Daytimer held Nick's address book. Gil scanned the S page, and frowned. Nick had obediently written it out here, as usual: Evan Santley. The name was familiar, in a way that suggested while he'd definitely heard it, it wasn't anyone who'd been particularly important to him. But Nick? Who knew?

Santley. Santley. The area code was unfamiliar. He reached out and touched his computer's mouse, clicking on his browser. A quick search told him Santley's area code was in Austin, Texas. A friend, probably. College buddy, something along those lines. Maybe he'd been in town then, met Nick for dinner. Made sense.

What didn't make sense was why Gil himself felt he recognized the name. He went back to the search screen and typed in Santley's name.

The first link made him sit up straighter, frowning. No wonder the name sounded familiar. It had been in the news, even here in Vegas. Texas Attorney General, Evan Santley. A man with a reputation for bulldog vigilance, a Democrat in a state crowded with Republicans. "Saintly" Santley. But he'd been too ruthless for the nickname to carry much power. A saint, Evan Santley had not been. A crusader, a ferociously straight shooter, perhaps.

He'd made a different kind of headline following his death in 1999. Gunned down in his own doorway very late one evening, and the shooter had never been found. No shortage of suspects, that much was certain. Santley had a long list of enemies, from oilmen to cattle ranchers to real estate developers to insurance executives. All had felt the bite of his rigorous ethical standards more than once.

And Nick had what? Met with him? For what?

Feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the ambient temperature in the room, Gil sat back, his hand limp on top of Nick's book. "What were you doing, Nicky?" he whispered, barely aware that he was saying the words out loud. "What was going on in 1998? And what did Evan Santley have to do with it?"

He closed the book finally, letting his fingers linger for just a moment on the leather. Feeling only slightly ridiculous, he raised his hand and kissed his fingers, touching the book again lightly before putting it back in the bottom drawer.

The phone rang while he was in the kitchen, putting on water for tea. His throat was aching, not with sickness, he devoutly hoped, but tired from talking. Nick's lemon-and-honey elixir was just the ticket.

He turned on the burner before walking over to pick up the kitchen extension. For a moment no one answered his hoarse "hello," and he frowned and repeated himself.

"Listen very closely," a man said in a very low tone.

Gil paused. "What?"

"Be very, very careful. You have no idea what you're dabbling in."

Gil's heart kicked in his chest, a jolt of surprise. "Who is this? What are you talking about?"

"Shut up and listen. You've just skimmed the surface, and they're already watching you. You will not be allowed to dig much deeper. Leave it alone, Mr. Grissom. Let it go, and live a long and happy life."

Almost too surprised to say anything, Gil managed, "Dig into what? I don't know what you're talking about. Who is this? Tell me!"

A pause. "Someone who knows whereof they speak," the man finally said. His voice was inflectionless, totally without accent. He sounded like a big-city news anchor. "You need a friend, Mr. Grissom, and you don't have any. Without them, you'll never get past first base. Believe me."

"Why should I believe you? What evidence –"

"Men have died for what you're poking around in. Better men than you. Stay out of this. Trust me; it's the only warning you'll ever get."

"What –"

But he was talking to a dial tone.

The sharp whistle of the tea kettle made him jump so hard he dropped the receiver he'd been holding for the past few minutes. He bent to pick it up and replaced it, and walked mechanically over to turn off the flame under the kettle. And then he simply stood, staring at nothing, heart still jitterbugging in his chest.

_To be continued. 12/9/04 _


	7. Seven

**Afterlife**

**By EB**

**©2004**

**Chapter Seven**

"This is everything I could find." Catherine slid a stapled sheaf of papers across the table. "Every case Nick worked from basically his first day through early 1999."

Gil shook his head, eyebrows raised. "That's…more than I'd thought."

"TELL me about it." She blew a gusty sigh and flopped back in her chair. "You know, it doesn't feel like that much until you see it in a list like that. Then you think, 'We do THAT MUCH?' I think we all need raises."

"Too true," he agreed distractedly, already scanning the first page. "Turn up anything interesting? Anything jump out at you?"

"Nothing much."

"It's here," Gil murmured, and turned to the second page. "I know it is."

"Okay, the natural question is now: What's here? What are you looking for?"

He glanced at her over his glasses. "I'll know it when I see it."

"And in case you were wondering? That isn't a lot of help."

"I'm not sure." Gil sucked on his lower lip for a moment, sagging a little in his chair. "An idea. I think based on some things I've uncovered, that Nick was involved in – whatever this was – very early on, almost certainly within the first year of his hiring. I could be wrong, but after last night I don't think I am."

She frowned. "We didn't get much decided last night. What convinced you?"

"It was after you left." He forced what he hoped was a nonchalant shrug. "I got a strange phone call. The caller didn't identify himself, but he warned me to stay away from this."

Catherine goggled at him. "Someone warned you off? Jesus."

"I thought about seeing if I could trace the call," he continued evenly. "But that would involve making all of this official, and I'm not quite ready to do that yet."

"Screw making this official. Gil, are you in danger?"

"I'm honestly not sure."

"Are you kidding?" she flared. "We've got four dead bodies, and you aren't SURE?"

He went back to studying the list. "I'm not saying I really want to take any unnecessary risks, Catherine. But this is important, and I'm starting to believe it may be much, much bigger than anything we've yet uncovered. I need to know why this happened. If this is how I do it, then so be it."

"And risk your life at the same time?"

"Nick did," Gil replied simply. "That much I'm certain."

Her cheeks were very pale. "Gil," she said in a thick voice. "Don't make me lose you, too. Please."

Her shaky tone took him by surprise, and he laid the list aside. "It won't come to that," he told her, praying he was correct. "I promise you."

"So you say. Jesus, Gil, what IS all this? What is going on?"

He smiled. "That's what I'm going to find out."

* * *

Catherine's list was six pages of a bulleted list, complete with dates, names, and case numbers. After she reluctantly left, he went back to studying it. 

Some cases he could automatically dismiss. Simple process of elimination: Anything Nick had worked with anyone still here, was pretty unlikely. Still in his probationary period, Nick had worked primarily with Catherine and with Gil himself, but there had been several cases that Brass assigned to Nick and Ed Blake, or Nick and Rusty Anderson. Ed's death had opened up a vacancy filled by Warrick, and Rusty had left after Thanksgiving that same year, 1998. Gil wasn't completely sure where he was now, although some time ago he'd heard Rusty took a position in Seattle. Probably still there.

Excluding the obvious, that left nearly twenty-five individual investigations to explore. Elimination again: take away the small potatoes. No trick rolls, no break-ins, a few others. He drew a heavy line through more items on the list.

What was left, at that point, were nine cases, six of which Nick had worked with Ed, the remaining three with Rusty. All involved deaths, whether by intent or accident. He wondered briefly about the accidents, and decided to exclude those for the moment, at least. He had a feeling he'd be studying this list again, in any case.

Which left him with four ostensible homicides. All four had been solved, relegated to the court system for trial.

Gnawing on the end of his pen, he read over Catherine's synopses. Case one had involved a husband and wife, murder for a sizeable life-insurance payoff. He shrugged off a dark thought about Nick's own policy and kept going. The husband had been arrested, ultimately, for his wife's murder, and now languished in prison, serving a life sentence. Case two was similar. This time the husband was the victim, and the wife and a boyfriend convicted of engineering the hubby's poisoning. Boyfriend convicted of manslaughter and serving twenty to life; wife serving a life sentence.

The other two cases were nominally less domestic in nature. A murder committed during a robbery attempt, and another involving two business partners and a real-estate deal gone sour. Convictions all around, in the former case the death penalty.

He tapped his fingers on the page, and then sighed, tucking his pen in his breast pocket. Time to descend to the dungeon.

One of the perks of being a supervisor, he'd discovered early on, was that he no longer had to descend to the basement when he needed a look at an inactive or closed file. He delegated. Someone else had to deal with silverfish and dust. He could simply reap the benefits of their search later.

Some wit had nicknamed the cavernous basement the "dungeon," ages ago, and it had stuck. Gil surveyed the rows of file cabinets and shelves, inhaled, and sneezed four times. The dungeon was organized, relatively neat, and he was allergic as hell to some of the contents.

Making a mental note to have someone actually come down here and do something about the dust, he glanced down at Catherine's list and began hunting for the actual physical files.

Two he found quickly, but after half an hour of fruitless searching he decided the other two were either misfiled or missing entirely. Fifteen minutes after that, he located the third, stuffed haphazardly into the wrong year, and he'd put his burden on a long table and given some serious thought to making someone else do the last part of the search when he saw a pile of several files lying on the floor. Worth a look, and the bottom-most file was the fourth he sought. Someone had had it out, sometime, and never bothered to put it away properly. It occurred to him to dust the cover for prints, just to find out who that particular lazy asshole was, but it just might be himself, so he just gritted his teeth and added it to the pile.

Back in his relatively dust-free office, he spread the files on his desk and sighed. He was tired, for some reason, and his head felt as if it had been stuffed full of cotton batting; his allergies were not improving with age. He blew his nose, coughed a couple of times, and opened the first file.

Beyond the initial purely forensics section – fingerprints, trace analysis, ballistics – he found a section of handwritten notes. Photocopies, and Nick's architectural handwriting. Lips curved in a sad smile, Gil snorted a little. Nick's somewhat obsessive habits carried over beyond his Daytimer; these were his case notes, carefully preserved. Two pages of observations, a theory or two, the names and addresses of the witnesses and other sources. All of that information was available in printout form, but trust Nick to copy the originals, just in case. He'd learned the hardcore principles of CYA early on, it seemed.

The case – hubby wiping out the spouse for a juicy life-insurance policy – was fairly straightforward. Nothing in the file, including Nick's notes, suggested anything beyond what he now saw in mostly black and white.

The same was true of the second file, but this one was missing any handwritten notes from Nick. So cut-and-dried that there hadn't been any need, maybe. Certainly it appeared that way, flipping through the slightly yellowed pages.

He hit pay dirt with the third, though.

The victim was a man named Paul Brooks, who had the rotten luck to be home during a break-in. The perpetrator had used a crowbar to bludgeon Brooks to death, an appalling level of violence. From all accounts the investigation was short and tidy; while the accused, a long-time repeat offender named Javier Lewis, had been careful not to leave prints on the items already selected for stealing, the crowbar had given up his secrets. DNA and fingerprint analysis spoke loud and clear. Lewis was arrested less than twenty-four hours after the crime, and ten months later a jury had convicted him and laid down the death penalty.

Gil frowned, flipping through more pages. Autopsy report, trace analysis, a copy of Lewis's substantial track record in the penal system. The man had been a model for recidivism, first arrest at the age of twelve, for stealing a neighbor's car. It was all downhill from there.

Brooks, as far as he could see, had been a very average guy. An accountant with a local branch of a national firm, he had a family, wife and two kids, who were that week luckily out of town visiting relatives in Provo. The housekeeper had discovered Brooks' body the next morning.

He turned more pages, a little impatiently, and found Nick's handwritten notes in the back, behind those of the detective working the case, John Sutter, neatly typed. Sutter's comments were brief and to the point; Nick's were rambling and went on for several pages. Whatever Ed Blake's opinions, he'd kept them to himself on an official level: there were no notes from him.

Gil leaned his chin on his hand. When had Nick stopped writing out his thoughts like this? He certainly hadn't done it the past couple of years. His reports, like Sutter's, were typed and printed in official departmental format, not jotted down in the field. Maybe he hadn't known better yet? Or maybe he simply kept it all to himself, and only later made copies of a more official nature?

Whatever the reason, Gil was glad for Nick's odd habits now. He scanned the first two pages, and then paused over the third. "Lewis – gloves," Nick had printed hastily. "Why fingerprints?"

Flipping back, Gil glanced at the forensics report. Lewis's fingerprints had indeed been all over the crowbar, although no others had been found. He frowned. Nick was saying Lewis had gloves on the whole time? That didn't make a lot of sense.

Nick had gone on to say, "Talk to wife. Reason for trip? Audit – ck records."

There was nothing about an audit in the file. But Brooks had been an accountant; a reference to his professional dealings prior to the murder?

On his last page of notes, Nick had drawn a crude chart, reminiscent of the one Gil himself had made while meeting with Brass and Catherine, at least in execution. The content, however, was decidedly different.

Gil sat back, gnawing his lower lip. The last thing Nick had jotted down was, "Not sure this was a robbery." So had he believed Lewis's actual goal had been the death of Paul Brooks? And if so, why hadn't he pursued it? There was nothing after Lewis's arrest, at least in Nick's notes. If he'd had questions, he hadn't notated them here.

He could feel the jitters in his stomach. There was more to this case than met the eye – he was certain Nick had been certain. But nothing in this file suggested what else that might have been. Nick had been oblique, not writing anything down that was truly substantive. More like reminders to himself, something. But reminders of what, Gil couldn't tell.

He glanced at the fourth file, and then sighed and gathered up all but the Brooks file and stacked them on the table near his desk. It might not be anything. Just Nick being a bulldog, hanging onto a case that hadn't been as complicated as he'd initially believed. It had happened before.

Thinking ruefully once again of Occam's razor, Gil closed the Brooks file and stood, tucking the folder under his arm.

* * *

John Sutter lived out past the city limits, on a five-acre plot of land a mile or so off the interstate. Gil pulled up in the gravel driveway and climbed out, squinting behind his sunglasses. The heat slammed into him like a balled-up fist, sweat popping out immediately on his brow. 

The house was small and immaculate. Walking to the porch, he noted a brave flowerbed, its inhabitants drooping but still surprisingly green. Someone paid a lot of money to keep those plants watered.

He rang twice, but there was no reply. But the front door was open behind the screen, and he heard a radio playing softly from somewhere. Frowning, he secured the file once more under his arm and stepped off the porch to go around the side of the house.

"Hello?" he called. "Anyone home?"

A rustling behind the Japanese pear, and a tall, heavyset man appeared, wiping his hands on a pair of overalls already burdened with more than their share of red dirt. "Can I help you?" he called, stepping out from what was revealed to be another plant bed, this one pregnant with tomatoes and corn. The corn looked a little tired, but the tomatoes, Gil thought, looked damn good.

Gil stepped forward. "Detective Sutter?"

"Not anymore," Sutter told him, taking off heavy gloves and shaking his head. "Retired two years ago. Disability. Gil Grissom, right?"

Gil nodded "I wasn't sure you'd remember me."

"Hasn't been that long." Sutter stepped over the last of the trailing tomato vines and revealed a distinct limp. He extended a hand to Gil. His fingers were damp and very hot. Hardly surprising, with gloves in this heat. "I'm gonna assume this isn't a social call."

"More official, yes," Gil admitted with a brief half-smile. "I'd like to ask you about a case you worked a few years ago."

"Figured it'd be something like that." Sutter tucked his gloves in his pocket and gestured at the house. "Want to come inside? I try to get an early start these days, but damned if it isn't too hot to work an hour after the sun comes up."

"Nice garden."

"Since my wife died, it's been my hobby, I guess." He led the way to the back porch, right hand absently covering his hip. "We were gonna retire out here. Then I got shot, and she got cancer. A lot of land for one person with a gimpy leg."

Inside, it was cool and dim, revealing utilitarian furniture and few decorative touches. Gil privately thought it was very much a bachelor's house, or a widower.

"Want something to drink? Got coffee, but it's so damn hot I'm having iced tea."

"Tea sounds good."

He followed Sutter into the spare, neat kitchen. "So what's this case you're after?" Sutter asked, going to the refrigerator and taking out a tall plastic pitcher.

"This would have been back in 1998. Paul Brooks was murdered in the course of a robbery attempt in his home."

Still with his back turned, Sutter nodded and got out two glasses. "Javier Lewis, right? I remember that one. You know, that was the fourth time I'd arrested Lewis. Last time, too," he added with satisfaction.

When Sutter sat at the small table, Gil followed suit, taking his glass of tea and tasting it briefly. "Thanks."

Sutter drank half a glass before wiping his lips with the back of his hand. Indoors, his features were younger than they'd appeared under the harsh sunlight. Fifty-five, sixty at the most, Gil judged. Formerly dark hair was slowly going to silver. He hadn't shaved that morning.

"As I recall it," Sutter said, "we wrapped that one up pretty fast. Lewis got the needle a couple of years back, and good riddance, ask me. Any particular reason you're looking into this one now?"

"A long shot." Gil laid the file on the table, tapping it with his fingers. "You worked this case with Nick Stokes, correct?"

"Stokes, yeah." Sutter sighed. "Good kid. Heard what happened. I'm more sorry than I can say."

"Nick left a lot of notes about this case. He didn't seem all that sure it was what it appeared to be."

Sutter gave a slow nod. "Yeah. I remember that."

Gil raised his eyebrows. "Can you walk me through it?"

"Old news, but sure. What I remember of it."

"Anything would help."

Sutter cleared his throat. "Well, let's see. We got the call early, about five that morning. Captain sent me out for a possible homicide. Housekeeper found the body. Poor woman was so scared we had to call an ambulance, afraid she was gonna have a heart attack."

"Go on?"

"It's all in the file. Lewis left his prints all over that crowbar. He hit Brooks so many times all that was left was goo, you know? Hell of a mess." He drank some tea. "Pretty cut and dried, really. Made the arrest the next day, Lewis didn't even put up a fight."

"Did he say why he killed Brooks?"

"Lewis never said a thing except, 'I want a lawyer.'" Sutter snorted. "He knew the drill."

"In his notes," Gil said carefully, "Nick said something about Lewis wearing gloves. There were no fingerprints found, except on the weapon. Did that strike you as strange?"

"The way I figured it, he'd gotten what he wanted already, and Brooks surprised him. Lewis took the gloves off, since he was done. Then he's gotta brain Brooks, so he uses the crowbar, and that's where we got prints."

It was logical. Like so many other things he'd been running into. Gil fought down the urge to heave a sigh. "Nick also wrote down he wasn't sure it was a robbery."

Sutter was silent for a moment, and then leaned back in his chair, setting his tea glass on the table. "Nick had this theory, something kind of out there. He thought this had something to do with the work Brooks was doing. Some kind of audit. A casino."

Gil raised his eyebrows. "A casino audit? There's nothing about that in the file."

"That's because it didn't pan out. Look, whatever Brooks was doing on a professional level, fact is, Lewis just wanted cash and jewelry, and when Brooks interrupted him, he flipped. Killed the guy and ran. When we found him he had tickets to Mexico in his pocket."

Leaning forward, Gil pressed, "What was Nick's theory, exactly? Did he believe Brooks was set up? Lewis?"

"Now everybody knows these audits are set up months in advance. No casino's going to be surprised by some bean-counter showing up. It just doesn't work that way."

"But if it did. This time. What did Nick think Brooks had found out?"

Sutter looked uncomfortable. "You think I know? Look, Nick was a good CSI, smart, a little naïve. Really gung-ho, you know? I didn't want to ignore him, but the thing is, we had our guy already. There was no evidence to support some kind of conspiracy theory. I told him that myself, and hell, he agreed."

"Did he ever tell you the gist of his theory? Anything more specific?" When Sutter didn't immediately reply, Gil added, "Please. It may be important."

"This have anything to do with Stokes getting shot?"

Gil paused. "Possibly. I can't say yet."

Sutter nodded. "All right. Yeah, he told me about it. It's been a while, so I don't remember it all. Something about Brooks sprung an audit on the Horseshoe. That was back when Sal Coppa still owned it. Now you and I know, nothing happened that Coppa didn't know about first." He shrugged. "But Stokes thought for once nobody got warned ahead of time. This time, Brooks just walked in and asked for the books."

"What was the timeline? How long before he was killed?"

After a moment, Sutter said reluctantly, "About a week, maybe ten days."

Gil recoiled. "And you didn't pursue that?"

"Look, Grissom, we had our guy already." Sutter's face had gone pale beneath the tan. "There was no reason to look into it. You don't just investigate somebody like Coppa on a whim, you know that. Jesus, talk about having a death wish."

"Maybe that's just what Paul Brooks did. And maybe this was the result."

"Maybe. But I didn't believe it at the time, and I still don't. I worked this city for twenty-two years, Grissom. Nobody does crap like that. It just isn't done."

Gil nodded slowly. "Did Nick say anything else?"

Sutter finished his glass of tea and shook his head. "I saw him about a week after we made the arrest. Up at the DA's office. I asked him if he had any more crazy theories, you know, and he said, "No, John, you were right. There's nothing else there.'"

"Did you believe him?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

Gil drew a deep breath. "Thanks for your time, Detective. Sorry to interrupt your gardening."

Sutter studied him for a moment, eyes narrowed. "Like I said, too damn hot. What difference could all of this make now, anyway? Coppa's dead. Been pushing up daisies for three years now. The Horseshoe isn't even the Horseshoe anymore."

"If I knew, I'd tell you," Gil said, half-honestly. He pushed back his chair and stood. "Good to see you, John. Take care."

Sutter stood, too, shaking Gil's hand briefly. "Like I said, I'm sorry about Stokes. He was a good man, real good."

Gil nodded. "That he was."

* * *

_To be continued. EB 12/14/04 _


	8. Eight

**Afterlife**

**By EB**

**©2004**

**Chapter Eight**

__

This dream is different. He knows it's a dream, it must be a dream because Nick is alive, smiling at him from across this enormous room. That secretive smile, the one that says he has something he can't wait to share when they're alone. But they're alone here, there's no one else around, and why is he just standing there?

"Come on!" Gil shouts, perplexed. "Let's go!"

Nick smiles and waves, and Gil bellows his name, but the room is filling with mist and Nick is walking away. The vapor billows around Nick's legs, obscuring him, and Gil utters his name and follows, but the room is never-ending, so huge it can't possibly be real, and Nick is gone.

He sat up sharply, completely awake. He'd left the air going, and it was very cold, the sheet tangled around his feet and the blanket lying on the floor where he'd kicked it off at some point.

Shivering, Gil unwrapped his legs and climbed out of bed.

Early evening sun tinted the blinds orange while he lumbered into the kitchen to make coffee. He could feel the shreds of his dream clinging to him like spiderwebs, no clear images anymore, just a familiar, aching sense of loss. When would the dreaming stop? A year from now, ten? Never? He watched coffee drip into the pot and wondered if he could stand that.

He'd taken one cautious sip of coffee when the phone rang. A jolt of memory froze him briefly

it's the only warning you'll ever get

before he walked over to pick up the receiver.

"Gil? It's Jamie. Jamie Stokes."

His shoulders slumped with pure relief. "Hi, Jamie," he said breathlessly. "How are you?"

"I was calling to ask you that." Nick's sister uttered a rueful little laugh. "I'm all right. I was – thinking about you. You doing okay?"

Gil nudged a stool over with his foot and sat down at the breakfast bar. "I'm fine," he told her half-honestly. "Really."

"Really?"

He allowed a smile. "For the most part," he amended.

"I know what you mean," she said after a tiny pause. The laborious cheer in her voice had faded. "I -- I miss him. And it's crazy, because we lived a thousand miles apart the last few years. I barely ever saw him."

"Still."

"Yeah." She cleared her throat. "I wanted to tell you: I'm moving."

"Oh? Where to?"

"Back to Texas. I'll probably look for a place in Dallas somewhere." She sighed. "I can do my work anywhere, really. I mean, it just occurred to me the other day: Why am I staying in Chicago when I don't want to be here anymore? So I thought, you know. Maybe it's time to go home."

"Can I help? Do you need any –"

"No, no." Her laugh sounded glassy. "I guess I'm just feeling like – circling the wagons, something. I want to be closer to everyone. Family. I never knew I'd feel like this."

"It makes sense," he told her softly.

"Does it? I can't even tell."

"Have you told your parents?"

"Oh yeah. Mom flipped. In a good way, I mean. I think she's coming up next week to help me pack."

"That's good. You'll let me know if I can do anything for you, won't you?"

"You took the words out of my mouth again. Gil –"

He frowned at the receiver. "What?"

"You're part of the family, too, you know."

A sweet, aching knot had formed in his throat; he had to swallow before he could manage, "I appreciate that, Jamie."

"I thought I might come see you sometime. After the holidays, maybe. Is that okay?"

"Of course." He was vaguely startled at the wash of pure pleasant surprise he felt. "I'd love that."

"Okay." He could hear the smile in her voice. "Listen, I better go. I just wanted to touch base. You know. See how you were doing."

"I'm all right," he said gently. "One foot in front of the other."

"Yeah. Call me if you need anything. Anything at all, Gil. Okay?"

"I promise. You do the same."

"Okay. Talk to you later."

"Bye," he murmured.

Jamie's call lingered with him as he drove to the lab that evening. Not sad, but bittersweet, hearing the reflection of his own grief in her Texas-tinged voice. He wasn't sure Nick would even have believed the repercussions of his own death, the changes still in motion as a result of that violent few seconds.

At a red light, Gil smiled a little to himself. Jamie, Nick had told him early one morning in an abashed voice, had really been his favorite of his five sisters. Not supposed to have favorites, but they'd been so close as kids, born only ten months apart, practically twins. It was Jamie who'd helped him with his things during his move to Las Vegas, and he'd done her the same service only a few months later, a longer move north to Chicago and the freedom she perceived there.

Now Jamie was going back to Texas. He understood the impulse, in a detached sort of way. The loss of her younger brother had left a hole in Jamie's life hardly smaller than the one in his own. Hardly surprising she wanted to surround herself with the remaining members of the family.

And who would he turn to, when the loneliness got too bad? What was his own fallback position?

He turned into the lab parking lot and fought down a wave of hot self-pity. He didn't have one, and that was a fact. He'd been mostly a loner before Nick's precipitous arrival in his life, and now that Nick was gone, he was alone again. Except pre-Nick, "alone" hadn't seemed to ever quite translate to "lonely." He'd been quite content, in retrospect.

Grimacing, he yanked the truck into an empty space and turned off the ignition. Gathering his briefcase and a jacket, he made his way into the lab.

Down the hallway, Catherine lifted her chin and waited for him to reach her. "Hope you got some good rest," she said by way of greeting. "Gonna be a long-ass night."

Gil nodded. "What have we got?"

* * *

True to Catherine's baleful words, the night was hectic, a rash of new cases on top of the current ones still being processed. It occurred to him, sometime after midnight, that they were overworked and understaffed since Nick's passing. No one had said anything to him, but it was courtesy; the fact was they needed to hire someone, at least one new investigator, before matters truly got out of hand.

He buried his nose in work to keep from thinking about it too much. That was a problem for tomorrow. Or the next day. Surely it could wait that long.

It was well into the next shift before he finally saved his working file and thought about going home. After all, he had matters of a more personal nature to attend to. The Paul Brooks question, for example. Had there been an audit, and if so, how had the man swung a surprise visit to one of the most venerable casinos in town? Sutter had a point: such things didn't happen, at least not normally.

He waited for the flare of hot interest, but all he felt at the moment was exhausted, and burned out. What was he doing, anyway? Looking for meaning where there most likely was none? Trying to make sense out of Nick's senseless death? He'd seen this sort of behavior in far more than one surviving family member, during cases he'd worked. Anything to keep from thinking about the fact that one day they would have to go forward without the person they couldn't imagine losing.

And what about the mysterious phone call a few days ago? Wasn't that proof that this time he was not playing the role of the grieving partner in denial, grasping at straws? There was something real here, wasn't there? Why else would someone threaten him?

It only succeeded in making him feel even more tired. I'm sorry, Nicky, he thought dully. I can't do any more right this moment. I'm so tired. You understand, don't you? Just give me a day or two and I'll be back on it. I will, I promise you. I swear.

Warrick and Sara stood in tense discussion near the fibers lab, both looking up at his approach. "Calling it a night?" Warrick asked.

Gil nodded. "You two should head out. Get some rest. We'll all need it, I think."

"Too true."

Sara had been watching him closely; now her eyes narrowed. "You okay?"

Gil met her gaze and then glanced away. "Fine. See you both tomorrow."

She drew a breath, but he brushed past her, fingers sweaty on the handle of his briefcase.

* * *

Thirty minutes after he got home, tired and thinking only of going to sleep, the doorbell rang. Biting off a curse, Gil put down the fork he'd been using to poke at a bland microwaved dinner, and went to answer it.

He wasn't expecting the face he saw.

"Cabe?"

"Surprise." Nick's brother grinned and shrugged, holding out his hand. His fingers were warm and dry against Gil's. "Sorry to just drop by like this."

Gil blinked. "No, it's all right. P -- Please, come in."

"Thanks."

Inside the house, Gil was suddenly acutely aware of the lapse in his own housekeeping duties. Picking up his briefcase from where it sat discarded on the couch, he said, "Have a seat. You want some coffee? A beer?"

Cabe settled uncomfortably on the couch, looking as if he'd rather be moving around. He nodded. "Beer'd be great."

Gil walked over to retrieve a bottle from the fridge, and picked up his own half-empty bottle on the way back. "So what brings you to Vegas?" he asked.

Cabe spun the top off his bottle of beer and took a fast sip. "Bar association convention." He gave a sheepish smile. "I don't usually go, too busy, but it was Vegas, and I thought, hell, I'll check with Gil while I'm there. See how he's doing."

Two Stokeses in twenty-four hours. Odd. Gil nodded. "Where are you staying? Do you want –"

"No, no, I'm at the hotel. Bellagio."

"Ah."

An awkward pause that Cabe covered by drinking more beer. Then he said, cautiously, "You okay? Doing all right?"

"You know, Jamie called yesterday afternoon to ask the same thing."

"Oh. She's moving back to Dallas. Did she tell you?"

"She did, yes."

Cabe gave a busy nod. "Too damn cold up there anyway. Be good to have her home again."

Gently, Gil asked, "Is there something on your mind, Cabe?"

"Me?"

"You seem anxious. Is everything all right?"

Cabe glanced down at his beer bottle. "Shows, doesn't it?" He blew a sigh. "Sorry."

"That's all right. Tell me?"

"Mom -- My mother wanted me to see if there were some of Nick's things I could bring back. Just a few things, you know. Old stuff."

Ah. "Of course," Gil told him, relieved. "Cabe, you don't have to feel awkward about that. Anything you want."

The expression of pure relief on Cabe's strong features made Gil feel tired again. "Thanks. I didn't know how you'd feel about it. You know, me messing around with N- Nick's stuff."

"I've sorted through quite a bit of it already." He held up a hand at Cabe's alarmed look. "I didn't throw any personal effects away. Just boxed things up. That's all."

"Cool. You mind if I?"

"Not at all. Let me show you."

He'd put Nick's boxes in the garage, carefully taped shut and awaiting just such a moment as the one now at hand. With a faint pang of remorse, Gil flipped on the overhead light and gestured at the neatly stacked boxes. "Everything's here. Well, mostly," he amended. "Some things I've kept. Photographs, mostly. But the rest is here."

"Good deal." Cabe barely glanced at him, walking over to touch the topmost right box. "You sure you don't mind?"

"Of course not," Gil replied with more vigor than he felt. "I'll be happy to help if I can."

"That's all right. I got it."

Wanted privacy, then. Gil fought down another flicker of wrongness and nodded gamely. "I'll leave you to it, then."

* * *

After an hour or so Cabe re-emerged from the garage, burdened with a box filled with various items. Gil saw Nick's yearbooks neatly stacked inside, among other things. Cabe's face was flushed and sweaty. He set the box down with a sigh.

"Find everything?" Gil asked.

"Think so. She – Mom – she just wanted some of his old stuff. You know." He made a face. "I cleaned up in there when I was done. Most of it's still there, though."

Gil nodded. "Another beer? You look like you could use it."

"Got any iced tea, something?"

"I think so."

Cabe drank down two glasses before he finally grinned and shook his head. "Thirsty work."

"Hungry? I can make something."

"No, no. I'll pick up something at the hotel." Cabe gazed at him, mouth closing.

"Yes?"

"I didn't see Nick's desk."

"Oh. Yes, I -- I'm afraid I gave that away." He fought a sinking feeling in his belly. "Warrick and I cleaned it out last month, and when he admired it, I said he could have it. I apologize, I didn't realize that –"

"No, it's okay." Cabe shook his head decisively. "If you cleaned it out then I guess I already saw what was in it, right?"

"I put it all in a box, yes." Minus a few papers, Gil thought with a pang, and almost said it. Some flicker of unease made him hold it back.

"Warrick? That someone you work with?"

"Right."

"Okay." Cabe drew a deep breath. A furrow had appeared between his straight brows, and his eyes were preoccupied. "Listen, thanks for letting me, you know, scrounge around. I know it probably wasn't much fun for you."

Understatement, but Gil shook his head. "Don't worry about it. I want to help out any way I can, Cabe, you know that."

"I appreciate it." Cabe's dark eyes – so like Nick's, so painfully like – met his own briefly. "I should head out," he added in a louder voice. "There's a panel I'm supposed to attend at three. Gil, it's been great to see you."

Gil shook Cabe's hand, nodding. "And you. I hope I'll see you again before you go back to Texas?"

Cabe shrugged. "I'll do my best, that I promise you."

"When do you leave?"

"Tomorrow night, I think. Convention wraps up Sunday, but I gotta get back soon."

"I understand. If I don't see you again, please give my regards to your parents? And Jamie, when you see her?"

"Absolutely. Listen, you call us if you need anything, got it? Anything at all. You just name it."

Gil smiled. "I will."

* * *

His plans for a long afternoon of sleep completely shot, Gil lay down with a troubled sigh. He'd been absent too often lately; missing work tonight would create an unholy load for the remainder of the team. No, he'd have to grab a little sleep now and then make up for it with coffee. Tomorrow, he promised himself tiredly, he would leave as early as possible, and make it a point to catch up on missed sleep.

His alarm went off after a paltry three hours, and he was in the shower before he felt truly conscious of his surroundings. Christ, when had he gotten old like this? There had been a time, not so long ago, when he'd gotten by fine on less sleep than this. But right now he felt stuporous, his brain turned to solid rock. He yearned to go back to bed, sleep as long as his aching body needed. Eight hours, nine, twelve, didn't matter. As long as it took.

Instead he turned the water as cold as he could stand, and climbed out of the shower with his teeth chattering.

He made it to the lab only a few minutes late, and gave a harried nod to the few personnel he saw on his way to his office. There, he shed his jacket and briefcase with a relieved sigh and flopped down in his chair.

"Whoa," Catherine remarked a few minutes later, peeking in his door. "You're not sick again, are you?"

Gil produced a weary smile. "Didn't sleep much."

"Maybe you should –"

"I'm fine, Catherine. What's up?"

She leaned against the door jamb, arms akimbo. "The usual. Why didn't you sleep?"

"Nick's brother is in town. He wanted to pick up some of Nick's things."

"Oh." Her eyes crinkled sympathetically. "Cabe, right? The SEC one?"

"He's an attorney for the SEC, yes. Although I believe he has political aspirations."

She nodded. "He said something to me at the memorial about running for a House seat sometime."

"Something like that. I'm not entirely sure."

"Okay. Coffee's fresh. Better get it while it's still drinkable."

"Sounds like a great idea."

He got coffee in the break room, and passed the time of day with Sara and Greg, including a good-natured jab from Greg concerning the relative merit of institutional coffeemakers. "It does the trick, Greg," Gil told him with a sour smile. "At times, that's all I ask."

"Yeah, but."

"Yes, yes."

He was headed in the direction of ballistics when Warrick's unmistakable baritone called, "Grissom!"

Gil turned, barely managing not to slosh coffee over his hand. "Yes?"

Warrick's face was set in unhappy lines. "Got a minute?"

"Of course."

"In private."

Gil narrowed his eyes, and nodded. "Sure. My office?"

"That'll work."

He led the way, and watched while Warrick carefully shut the door behind them. "What's going on?" Gil gazed at him.

"You talk to Nick's brother?"

Gil blinked. "Cabe? Yes – yes, he came by this afternoon. How did you know he was here?"

"Because he came by my place, too. Tonight, right when I was getting ready to leave for work."

"Cabe?" Gil said doubtfully. "I didn't know you two knew each other."

"We don't, man," Warrick replied, shaking his head. "Least, not until now. And get this: All he wants is to have a look at that desk."

"What?"

"Nick's desk! He's all in my face about the damn desk." Warrick's features twisted with mixed anger and confusion. "Asks, have I emptied it out, did I keep anything I found. Told him it was all over at your place, you know? But he's still asking if he can have a look for himself."

Gil gave a tense nod. "Did you let him?"

"Well, yeah. I mean, couldn't think of a reason why not."

"And?"

Warrick sighed. "And nothing, man, he opened a few drawers and then said thanks and split. Now you tell ME what that was all about."

"I'm not sure yet." Gil shook his head when Warrick drew another agitated breath. "But I'll find out. He's staying at the Bellagio."

"You gonna talk to him? I mean, I understand the guy lost his brother, you know. I get it. But this was flat-out weird, Grissom. How the hell did he know where I lived? I'm unlisted, I got a PO box, it isn't like you can just look me up in the goddamn phone book."

"I'm not –"

"And that ain't really it, either," Warrick interrupted. "Why? What was in that desk he wanted?"

Gil kept on looking at him, and watched as memory dawned on Warrick's face. "Think this was about that key we found?"

"Maybe."

"Wait a second. If you didn't know about that key, how the hell did Nick's brother?"

Gil shook his head again. "I don't know that yet."

"I mean –"

"Warrick, I don't have any answers yet. But trust me, I'll get them. All right? Calm down. It's -- I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation."

Warrick's expression was eloquently dubious. "Yeah, well, let me know when you find out. Because that was pretty strange."

Gil met his gaze squarely. "Yes," he said softly. "It was."

He waited until Warrick had left before sitting at his desk and picking up the phone. Should have the Bellagio's phone number memorized by now, it was a common enough locale. He flipped through his ancient Rolodex until he came to the right card.

The operator sounded perishingly young. Gil swallowed and said, "Cabe Stokes's room, please."

"One moment, sir." She paused, and then said, "I'm sorry, sir, we don't have any guests by that name in the register."

A needle of ice shot up his spine; he sat up stiffly. "I'm sure this is the right hotel. He's attending a convention you're hosting."

"Which convention, sir?"

Gil swallowed dryly. "The Texas Bar Association, I believe."

"I'm sorry, sir, there's no convention here for that organization."

The ice spread, sliding tendrils down his arms and legs. He felt colder than he had in the shower that afternoon. "I see," Gil said faintly. "Would you mind checking the name once more for me? Stokes. S-T-O-K-E-S."

A beat, and the teenage-sounding operator told him, "I'm sorry, sir. I don't see anyone by that name."

"Th – Thank you. For your time."

"My pleasure, sir."

He fumbled the receiver back into its cradle, nearly dropping it from his nerveless hand. No convention. No Bellagio. Cabe had lied. Nick's brother had come to his house, gone through Nick's things, and then made a trip to Warrick's home – an address he couldn't have had just lying around – in order to have a look at Nick's desk. Nick's desk, that contained the few clues Gil had found to an increasingly thorny puzzle.

When Greg stopped by later, wanting to check on something, he was still staring fixedly at the telephone, too stunned to move yet.

"Grissom?" Greg hovered hesitantly in the doorway, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "You okay?"

Gil forced himself to look forward, focus. "I -- Yes. Yes, fine. What did you need?"

"You wanted that report from last night." Greg waved a handful of printouts. "The Jefferson case?"

Gil took the papers, laying them on his desk without looking at them. "Thanks, Greg," he said faintly.

"You sure you're all right? I can –"

"I'm fine." Gil swallowed. "Just preoccupied, I suppose."

"Because you look like you just saw a ghost."

Gil gazed at him, hearing his heart thumping in his ears. "I feel as if I almost have," he whispered.

* * *

TBC. EB 12/17/04


	9. Nine

**Afterlife**

**By EB**

**©2004**

**Chapter Nine**

It was child's play – at least for a criminalist – to get his hands on a few airline passenger manifests. Who had flown to Las Vegas from Dallas this morning? There were six flights on three airlines; Cabe was on the third he checked. He'd arrived at 0915.

And thank God for the internet. Because it was equally easy to turn Cabe's flight around and see when he was scheduled to depart. If he'd wanted to be truly secretive, he could have used a different name. But there it was, in plain black and white: Cabe Stokes, flight 965, departing at 2110 tonight.

Gil glanced at his watch. Nearly a quarter past eight now. He could make it. Just barely.

Catherine was in her office, on the phone, looking up distractedly at his appearance.

"Cover for me?" Gil whispered. "I need to take care of something."

She frowned and said, "I know, that's what I thought as well." Hand covering the mouthpiece, she hissed, "Something? Where are you going?"

"I'll be back in an hour or two. Thanks, I owe you one."

He heard her say, "Just one?" as he turned his back and fled back down the hall.

It was nearly nine before he pulled his truck to a stop in a no-parking zone. He stuck a police pass in his dashboard, ignored the frowning curbside attendant, and made a beeline for the concourse.

Security balked at his gun, and was only slightly mollified when he produced his PD credentials. With a faint qualm he surrendered his sidearm. Hardly likely to need it, but these days he felt more secure with it on his person. Just in case. What contingency he was planning for, he wasn't sure, but fact was, he liked being armed.

Cabe's flight was departing from the second-to-last gate in the C terminal. It took a moment to inspect the milling would-be passengers and make out Cabe's muscular form. Standing near the jetway entrance, no baggage. He looked tense.

Gil fought down a flare of hot anger and strode forward. Studying a group of chattering tourists carrying shopping bags, Cabe didn't see him until he grabbed Cabe's elbow, fingers digging in hard. Then Cabe flinched hugely, dark eyes round.

"We need to talk," Gil told him.

"Gil?" Cabe gasped. "Jesus. You scared the shit out of me."

"Feeling jumpy?" Gil kept the distance between them closed. "We can talk here, or we can talk in private, but either way we're going to talk."

"My flight leaves in –"

"If you miss it, you can catch the next one. Come on."

Any other time it would have been faintly comical. Cabe Stokes was a couple of inches taller than he was, and carried far more muscle; for Gil to drag him down the crowded hallway like a tugboat hauling a protesting ocean liner was probably pretty ridiculous. He didn't care. And he didn't let go of Cabe's bicep until they'd reached the small, half-full bar nearly the terminal entrance.

"Sit," Gil snapped, pointing Nick's brother at a two-top at the back of the bar.

Sometime during that half-walk, half-jog down the hall, Cabe's look had turned inscrutable, no longer anxious to the casual eye. But he sat, dwarfing the little table, features now murky in the bar's faint light.

Lowering himself into the other chair, Gil drew a deep breath. "You lied," he said just loudly enough to carry over the other conversations. "You lied to me about why you were here."

"It's not what you think." Cabe even sounded calmer than he had a few minutes ago. Calmer than he had since that visit to Gil's house, in fact.

"What I think? You tell ME what I think," Gil flared. "I have no earthly idea what's going on."

Cabe's mouth tightened, and the wary light in his eyes intensified. "Take my advice," he told Gil in a gruff voice. "Do your best to keep it that way."

"I want some answers, Cabe! Not this cryptic suspense-novel bullshit! What were you looking for? And why'd you have to lie to me about it?"

"You don't understand." Cabe's voice sounded just a little whiny. "It's very – complicated."

Gil gave a crisp nod. "Let me tell you what I do understand," he said in a low voice. "I understand that you were looking for something in Nick's things. In my garage. I understand that you used your own resources to find out where Warrick Brown lived, and went there just to have a look at Nick's desk. What was in that desk, Cabe?"

Cabe shot a dire look at the waitress walking toward them, and she stopped, taking a step backward before turning away. When he looked back at Gil there was no mistaking the anguish in his gaze. "Nothing," he said tonelessly. "Nothing at all."

"Did it have anything to do with Paul Brooks' death?"

Now it was Cabe who grabbed Gil, strong hand snapping out to close over his wrist. Gil felt the bones actually move a little under Cabe's fingers. "What do you know about that?" Cabe whispered.

"I know Nick suspected something else was going on," Gil managed. "I know he didn't think it was a random break-in."

Just as fast as he'd grabbed him, Cabe let go, shaking his head. "Jesus, Gil. For your own sake, please let it go. Don't pursue it. The less you know, the better."

"Too late," Gil said harshly. "Is this why Nick died? Tell me! Is this why he was murdered?"

"My flight's leaving. I have to go." Cabe stood, rocking the table with his thighs.

Gil didn't stand up. "I need to know, Cabe. I don't want to know, I NEED to know. Can you understand that? He was – everything to me."

This time Cabe's hand clasped his shoulder, and the strong fingers were gentle, squeezing briefly. "I know," Cabe said gruffly. "I know he was. Okay? But I can't help you. I can't. I have to go."

Staring at the tabletop, Gil said, "I'll find out. You know I will."

"Then God help you, Gil. Because I can't. I have to go."

Gil didn't move until long after Cabe had jogged away. It was only as he waved the waitress away again and saw her annoyed expression that he thought to wonder what Cabe had done with Nick's things.

* * *

"So the prodigal returns."

Gil glanced up. "Hi."

Brass's tentative half-smile vanished as he sat in the chair opposite Gil's desk. "Got a minute?"

"Several, I guess." Gil tossed his pen on the desk. "In fact I'd welcome a distraction."

"Okay, well, you know that case, that isn't a case? The one we're not working?"

Gil stared at him. "Yes," he said tightly. "What?"

Brass nodded and said, "No luck in Reno. If there's a Johnny, we'll never find him. Not that way."

Gil gave an answering stiff nod. "I suspected as much."

"So you still want to pursue this? Because I believe you when you say there's more to it, but all I'm finding are brick walls. Big, thick brick walls."

"Oh, I'll pursue it," Gil whispered. "Believe me on that."

Brass's eyes narrowed. "What's going on?"

It only took a few minutes to tell the story of Cabe's odd arrival, and odder departure. As he finished, Brass sighed and leaned back in his chair. "We're in over our heads, Gil," he said baldly. "Christ, what the hell is all this? He was warning you off. Or threatening you."

"Not the first warning I've had."

"What?"

"I got an odd phone call, after you and Catherine left the other night. A man, wouldn't identify himself. He told me to leave it alone."

"And you're just now telling me this?" Brass snapped. "Jesus!"

"I want you to do something for me," Gil said slowly. "I want your promise, right now, that you'll do as I say. All right?"

"Screw that," came Brass's gruff reply.

"I'm serious, Jim. I need your promise."

"Christ. WHAT?"

Gil nodded shortly. "That you'll leave this alone. That you'll forget about it, walk away. Right now."

"That's a joke, right? That's a goddamn JOKE."

"No. It's not."

Brass's face was flushed, his mouth turned down in a ferocious scowl. "You got some kind of martyr complex, Grissom? Is that it? You gonna see how quick you can manage to meet Nick at the pearly gates?"

"It's not that," Gil said hoarsely. "But the more I uncover, the more dangerous this appears to be. I won't take you down with it, Jim. You or Catherine. This is my problem, not yours."

"Your PROBLEM? Aw, Jesus." Brass reached up to scrub his face vigorously with his hands, and then gazed at him. "Let me let you in on a little secret, Gil, all right? This isn't just your case. It's mine, too. All right? Nick Stokes was my friend. He mattered to me, too. So stop this – bullshit, stop trying to PROTECT me, and get with the program! What was Nick's brother looking for?"

"The key," Gil whispered. "He was looking for the key. I'm sure of it."

Brass swallowed and then nodded. "The one you showed me. Did you tell him?"

"No. I didn't."

"You figured out what it opened, didn't you?"

"A safety-deposit box. Like we thought."

"And?"

"I can't –"

"TELL ME!" Brass roared.

With a jerky nod, Gil said, "It was – strange. So strange, Jim. Money, and – and fake identification. Passports, drivers licenses, even a birth certificate."

Brass drew back a little. "What?"

"I know. I know, it's bizarre."

"Nick had fake ID? What the hell for?"

Gil leaned back in his chair. "There are only a few conclusions I can draw," he replied, and sighed.

"He was gonna bug out?"

"What else could it be?"

"And what? Never had a chance to do it?"

"I guess not. Jim, he -- There was an ID in there for me, too. A passport with a fake name and my picture. I never knew it was there. Never."

Brass gave a slow nod. "Sounds like whatever he was planning to do, he wanted to take you with him."

"Someone got to him first."

"Yeah," Brass said softly. "Sounds like it. So what was with the brother? Why'd he want this crap?"

Gil shook his head. "I don't know. It doesn't make sense. Nick is dead; he doesn't need it."

"Anything else you found? Anything at all?"

"There's the money. He had about $5,000 in cash in the box. But Cabe wouldn't have been looking for that. I can't even conceive of it."

"What else?"

Gil nibbled on his lower lip, and then said, "There was an appointment book."

Brass's nostrils flared. "Yeah?"

"An old one. From 1998. It's what first got me thinking that this entire situation started a number of years ago."

"You might have mentioned this before now," Brass said in a thin voice. "You know?"

Gil shrugged. "If that's what Cabe was after -- But why? Covering Nick's tracks? What possible reason could he have?"

"I'm not sure. But whatever Nicky was into, maybe Cabe's in it, too. Ever thought of that?"

Gil stared at him. "Cabe -- He and Nick weren't terribly close. Friendly, but not –" He broke off, his thoughts roiling. "Nick told him," he whispered. "Something. Cabe Stokes works for the SEC. He has connections, political friends. And Paul Brooks was auditing a casino."

"Who the hell is Paul Brooks?"

"A case Nick worked, very early on. February 1998. Murdered during the course of a robbery, but it's pretty clear Nick thought there was more to it than that."

Brass sighed. "Tell me. And for Christ's sake, don't leave anything out this time."

It took longer to tell than he'd expected, mostly because Brass asked a number of pointed questions. But it felt weirdly good to tell. He felt lighter at the end of it. Not comforted per se, but definitely relieved.

"Sutter was a good cop," Brass said slowly. "And he's right about Coppa. No way he would have stood for a surprise audit."

Gil nodded. "Which leads me to a natural question."

"What did Brooks find?"

"Exactly."

"Christ, and this was what? 1998? Good luck tracking that one down."

"Brooks worked for Benton, Goldman, and Benton. Accounting firm. I want to know whose idea it was to audit the Horseshoe that winter."

"Me, I'm more interested in who's making death threats."

"Threat. Singular. And it sounded more like a warning than a threat."

"Kissing cousins," Brass replied stolidly.

"Maybe."

"I want your phone records."

Gil gazed at him. "All right," he said after a moment. "Yes."

Brass was near the door when Gil added, "So why now?"

Turning, Brass frowned. "Why now what?"

"If Brooks was killed in 1998 for an unauthorized audit, and Nick suspected something wasn't kosher at the time – Why wait until now to kill him? Why not back then?"

Brass didn't reply for a moment. Hand on the doorknob, he drew a deep breath. "Because," he said slowly, "the audit wasn't all Nicky found."

Gil nodded. "No," he murmured. "I don't think it was, either."

* * *

At home the next morning, he drank two cups of coffee and got out bread for toast before finally, reluctantly admitting that the tight, hot sensation in his forehead was in fact the opening salvos of a migraine. Ten minutes later he smelled burning oranges, and saw telltale globs of glaring white in his peripheral vision. Yes. Like it or not, the black horse was galloping his direction.

The headache built with the fast inexorability of a desert thunderstorm, and an hour later he was lying on the couch, a cold cloth on his forehead, two Dilaudid tablets dissolving in his stomach. So many things he needed to do, ideas he wanted to investigate, but his head hurt so much. The pills would help eventually, if he could keep them down. Enough that he would sleep, finally, and if he was lucky, when he awoke the pain would be, if not entirely gone, reduced to something approaching a manageable level.

Instead he threw up the pills, and then threw up nothing at all several times, and by the end of it he could hardly see, tears running down his cheeks. He crawled into bed and tugged the covers up high, and sandwiched his head between two pillows before closing his eyes.

At three he got up to vomit again, and when that spate was done, his mouth tasting foul and the pain slamming against the backs of his eyes, he called Catherine.

"Migraine?" she asked, after his garbled introduction.

"Yes," he whispered, and closed his eyes. "Bad one."

"Want me to come over? You need anything?"

"I won't be there tonight," he told her. He belched once, silently, and tasted fresh bile. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize. Aw, Gil. You want me to take you to the ER? Get you some good stuff?"

"No. No. Just need – quiet."

"Okay. Gil, call me if it gets worse. Please?"

"Yes. Have to go."

"Okay. I'm sorry."

He hung up and then leaned over the wastebasket.

When he went to bed again, it was with self-pity curdled like sour milk in his belly. If Nick were here, he'd take care of him. If Nick hadn't died, he could have helped him clean up, and made sure he had some 7-Up or something, made sure he took more Dilaudid. But Nick was gone, Nick would never return, and he was so alone. So horribly, unspeakably alone.

He choked down two more tablets, and pulled the covers over his head.

* * *

At some point the Dilaudid came through, casting a warm opiate blanket over the worst of the pain, and he slept heavily, waking sometime in the middle of the night to take a leak and brush his furry teeth, and then returning to bed and immediately falling asleep again.

The next morning the pain was still there, but a pale shadow of itself. The horse was leaving, not at a gallop but a steady trot, and Gil felt almost tearfully glad. Christ, the worst in years, maybe ever.

He was barely awake when his phone rang. The house phone, not his cell, and he wondered what would have Catherine using that number when she knew there was no extension in the bedroom. The remnants of the synthetic morphine clung, making his thoughts slow, thick as molasses. Rubbing his crusty eyes, he shambled out into the living room and picked up on the seventh ring.

"You're not listening, are you?"

Gil sat down in a chair, grasping the receiver in suddenly trembling fingers. "You haven't told me anything," he said shakily.

The man was silent, then cleared his throat. The same flat, accentless voice. "There's more to it than the casino. Much, much more."

"I assumed as much. Tell me. For god's sake."

"The casino's the tip of the iceberg. What about the firm?"

"Where Brooks worked."

An impatient snort. "I heard you were a smart man, Mr. Grissom; now prove it. Look at the firm. Everything you need to know is right there."

Gil swallowed. "You told me to stay away, the other night."

"And you didn't."

"No."

"Look at the firm. I can't stay on this line."

"Who are you?" Gil stood and felt his knees quivering beneath him. Grabbing the edge of the breakfast bar, he continued, "Tell me what this is. What did Nick find out? Who shot him?"

A tiny pause, and then he heard a dial tone. With a curse, he slammed the receiver down, and then winced as a vagrant needle of pain materialized behind his nose.

* * *

_ TBC. EB_


	10. Ten

**Afterlife**

**by EB**

**(c)2004**

**Chapter Ten**

Donald Fargason had a very, very nice office. Gil found himself wondering just how good business had been lately. Very good, if the expensive furnishings were any indication.

Fargason himself, on the other hand, looked tired, and mildly irritated.

"I don't have to tell you, Mr. – Grissom, was it? You're talking about at least six years ago. Not exactly yesterday."

Gil nodded. "I understand that. But you'd still have records, I assume?"

"Well, of course. I'm simply saying that if you want me or anyone else to be able to tell you the details –" He lifted both hands, palm up. "I doubt anyone here would remember this specific audit."

"You don't have to. I'd simply like a look at the files."

Fargason's tightly professional smile didn't waver. "For that you'll need a warrant, I'm afraid."

Not unexpected. Gil found his own professional look, regarded Fargason calmly. "Is Benton, Goldman, & Benton a locally owned company?"

"No. We're a subsidiary, as you no doubt already know."

"Your parent company?"

The smile slipped. "Henley-Jackson."

Gil lifted his eyebrows. "They have their fingers in a lot of different pies, don't they?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact they do. Listen, Mr. Grissom, I'm sorry I can't help you. I really am."

"I appreciate your taking the time to see me." Gil smiled and stood, extending his hand. Fargason's grip was firm, but his fingers were cold against Gil's own. "I'll let you get back to work."

Fargason nodded. His answering smile looked shaky to Gil's eyes. "Not a problem, Mr. Grissom."

In the reception area, he saw a dark-haired woman walking his way. Her eyes met his, and she lifted her chin imperceptibly at the elevator.

When the doors closed, he turned to her. She didn't introduce herself. "Listen to me," she said in a tight, harsh voice. "No one here will help you. Not with this."

He gazed at her. "And yet you're here."

"Those records were destroyed three days after Paul died. That's what Don didn't tell you."

"Destroyed? What –"

"Shut up and listen," she snapped, after a fast glance at the progress of the digital numbers on the elevator readout. "There was a reporter around for a while. It was years ago, but he had a lot of information, on Paul, on the break-in. He didn't think it was legit. Find him; he'll tell you what I can't."

"Who are you?" Gil whispered.

The woman let out a shaky breath. He thought she would be attractive if she didn't seem so fearful. "No one," she said. "No one, okay? But Paul was a – friend. A good friend."

"It was a setup," Gil said. "Wasn't it? It wasn't a real robbery."

"The reporter's name was Huckaby, something Huckaby. He worked for the Post-Sentinel."

The elevator dinged, and Gil managed a husked, "Thank you," before the doors opened and his unknown informant brushed past him, already dialing something on her cell phone.

* * *

A call to the paper told him a Daniel Huckaby was no longer employed as a staff reporter, but after a couple of transfers, he got through to an editor. According to him, Huckaby had left his position a couple of years ago to do more freelance work, and still wrote a few pieces for the Post-Sentinel now and then.

He stopped at the lab to co-opt the PD software. Huckaby had a south Vegas address and three phone lines, none of which were listed numbers. He also, according to the database, had four outstanding parking tickets, an alarming amount of credit debt, and a criminal record: two trespassing charges, both dismissed out of court and the most recent nearly three years previously. Well, he was an investigative journalist; Gil had a pretty good idea how he might have been caught snooping.

Other than that, Huckaby sounded fairly mundane. Gil printed off the address and tucked the folded sheet of paper in his breast pocket.

"Thought you were sick."

Gil glanced up at Jim Brass, standing in the doorway of his office. "I did have a migraine," Gil said, and powered down his computer. "Better now."

Brass looked tired. "Working?"

"Just stopped by for something. You look terrible. Shouldn't you be off by now?"

"In a kinder, gentler PD, I probably would." Brass didn't smile. "Your mystery caller was in Houston."

Gil froze for a split-second, and then nodded. "Who is he?"

"He's a pay phone. Which might have helped at the time, but doesn't particularly now."

Allowing himself a brief sigh – of course it wouldn't be that easy – Gil made his way around the desk. "Worth a shot. Go home, Jim. Get some sleep."

"Where are you off to?"

"To see Bob Woodward."

"Who?"

Gil smiled. "Never mind."

* * *

Huckaby's address was a tidy condo on a cul-de-sac. Gil parked at the curb, absently thinking that he'd looked at one of these, several years ago. A brief flirtation with moving, that hadn't gone beyond the looking-around stages. Couldn't remember whether or not he'd liked these. They blended in with too many too-similar others.

He leaned on the bell three times before he heard the lock turning. A shadowy face was barely visible; Gil squinted in the white sunlight.

"Daniel Huckaby?"

"If you're selling Bibles, I'm not interested."

"No Bibles. My name is Gil Grissom." He dug out his badge. "With the Las Vegas crime lab. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions."

He still couldn't make out anything clearly, but the man had a low, pleasant voice. "Questions about what?"

"Some investigative work I think you did, a few years ago. It pertained to the death of Paul Brooks. Brooks was an accountant with –"

"Come in, for God's sake. Quick." The door swung wider. "Don't just stand there."

The interior of Huckaby's condo was starkly modern, underfurnished even for Gil's somewhat ascetic taste. A single black sofa stood in the center of the room, with a matte black chunk of marble functioning as a coffee table. The only chair was equally black and equally uncomfortable-looking. A huge, monochromatically red painting occupied the far wall. Those were the only furnishings Gil made out.

Huckaby himself was slightly taller than Gil, and well-built. Dressed in jeans and a gray knit shirt, he clashed with his own house, casual and not particularly neat. Dark hair in need of a trim, and a day's worth of stubble on his chin.

He was staring, and knowing that fact didn't change what ran through his mind, lightning-quick and shocked. Jesus, he looks like Nick. Dark eyes, dark hair, and I haven't seen him smile yet but I know when I do, it will be radiant. Just like Nick.

"Sorry." Huckaby's voice was much deeper than Nick's, thankfully, but clad in a soft accent that was cruelly similar. A hand went up to smooth his hair. "You can't be too careful."

Blinking his way out of his dazed stare, Gil nodded. "So I gather," he said. "But I'm not sure why. Not yet."

With a snort Huckaby said, "Keep going. You'll get it eventually. Listen, you want some coffee or something?"

"Sure. Coffee would be great."

He followed Huckaby into the equally modern kitchen. "Word to the wise," the man said while he took down a can of coffee from the cabinet. "You don't just walk up to people and ask them about Henley-Jackson. I mean, not without making sure the place isn't wired first."

Gil frowned. "I wasn't aware I was even asking about Henley-Jackson. Should I be?"

"Paul Brooks did. Evan Santley did."

"Santley. You knew him?"

Huckaby shook his head, running water into the coffee pot. "Not personally. He was shot before I ever had the chance." He cast Gil a narrow glance. "How do you not know this shit yet? How'd you find me?"

"A woman at Benton, Goldman, & Benton. I never found out her name. She said she knew of a journalist who'd investigated Brooks's murder."

"Huh. Bet it was Diane Abram. She was pretty tight with Brooks. Always wondered if they were having some kind of affair. She took his death hard."

"She told me," Gil said slowly, "that all the records of that Horseshoe audit were destroyed three days after Brooks's death. Is that true?"

"Yep." Huckaby leaned back against the counter while the coffeemaker bubbled. "That's part of the reason why it's been so hard to put all the pieces together. A friend of mine -- He had quite a few. So what's your interest here? Don't tell me the PD is investigating. They're too chicken-shit to take this on."

"No," Gil agreed mildly. "This is more a personal thing."

The dark eyes trained on him were far more knowing than he felt comfortable with. "Okay. So now you're here."

"Why did you stop investigating?"

"Who says I did?"

"You left your job. Went free-lance. Is this why?"

Huckaby turned to take two white coffee cups out of another cabinet. His tone was muffled. "I left because I didn't have much of a choice. They put the whammy on me."

Gil frowned. "Whammy?"

"Started out with anonymous phone calls. Telling me to leave this one alone, that it was more dangerous than I knew." He set the cups down with a solid thunk. "Then weird shit started happening. One of my key sources for a totally unrelated story recanted. Said I'd made it all up. My credibility was for shit. All of a sudden I was being treated like a goddamn cub reporter, you know? My editor double-checking everything I did." He walked over to the stainless steel refrigerator and took out half-and-half. "But when my house burned down, I started wondering if maybe I shouldn't leave Henley-Jackson alone."

"Burned down?"

"Yeah. Three years ago." He lifted his chin. "This place, I rent from a friend. Furnished and everything. What there is of it."

"You know for sure it was arson? Related to your work on Brooks?"

"Know it for a fact, absolutely. Convince the fire marshal that's what it was? Not so easy." He poured coffee into the cups and held one out to Gil. "Come in the study. It's not quite as museum-y."

The study was indeed a little more lived-in. "Maybe you ought to start at the beginning," Huckaby told him when they were seated. "You said it was a personal thing?"

"Very personal, I admit. I know that Paul Brooks's death was suspicious. I know that the audit he supposedly did on the Horseshoe was most likely not pre-planned, something that rarely happens with the casinos." Gil sipped the adequate coffee. "What I don't know -- I don't know much more than that. Who killed Paul Brooks?"

"A guy named Javier Lewis. But you know that. He was executed for it."

"You think he really did it?"

Huckaby shrugged. In the dimmer light of the study the resemblance to Nick was even more marked. "I'm sure he did. It's why he did it that no one wanted to talk about."

"Which was?"

"It was a hit, of course. Don't tell me you didn't figure that part out yet."

"All right. So who hired him? Coppa?"

"Oh, that order came from a lot higher place than Coppa. Coppa was a middle-man. He didn't give orders; he carried them out."

"Who did? Someone at Henley-Jackson?"

"Almost certainly. I never found out who." Huckaby gave a tiny, wry smile: his first that Gil had seen. "By the time I got this far I was just trying to keep my job. And stay alive."

"Tell me about Lewis?"

"Not much to tell. He worked for Coppa for several years before Brooks's murder, but the year before he stopped. Then the week before the break-in he goes back on Coppa's payroll, only he never shows up at the casino."

Gil shifted uneasily. "I find it hard to believe the police never investigated this connection, frankly."

"Yeah, in hindsight, sounds sort of suspicious, doesn't it?" Huckaby regarded him alertly. "Makes you wonder just how far Henley-Jackson cast the nets."

"How far?"

"A lot farther than you know."

Stung, Gil said, "So tell me what YOU know. Then maybe we'll be on the same page."

"Hey, you're acting as if I'm still working on this. No way. I'd like to keep on breathing, thank you very much."

"Not everyone had that option," Gil snapped. "Ever think of that?"

Huckaby's smile was gone, but he was nodding. "Yeah," he said softly. "Every fucking day."

After a silent moment Gil said, "I apologize. This -- As I said, it has a personal meaning for me."

Huckaby sighed and finished his coffee. "So what do you say," he replied, "to starting over here. What's your angle? Why are you here?"

Gil swallowed. "My partner was killed in August. Murdered. And I believe – I know – that his death had something to do with Paul Brooks, and whatever Brooks found at the Horseshoe casino."

"Okay," Huckaby said cautiously. His eyes narrowed. "Who was your partner? We talking lover here?"

"We worked together. And we were lovers, yes."

"Wait a second." Huckaby lifted a hand, and Gil saw that his fingers were shaking. "You work for the PD, right?"

"Criminalistics. The crime lab. I'm not a police officer."

"Forensics. You do forensics."

"Right," Gil agreed, frowning. "Why?"

Huckaby's color had drained, leaving him slightly greenish looking. "Jesus."

"What?" Gil pressed, leaning forward.

"Your – partner. He was Nick, wasn't he?"

Hearing Huckaby say the name felt like a sharp slap; Gil recoiled. "You knew Nick?"

"Why didn't you say? Oh, Jesus," Huckaby moaned. "You knew Nicky. Oh, Christ."

"Tell me what –"

"Who do you think my goddamn source was?" Huckaby snapped. "The Easter bunny?"

* * *


	11. Eleven

**Afterlife**

**by EB**

**(c)2004**

**Chapter Eleven**

"I met Nick while I was working on a story, back in '97, I think. He was new in town, I think he'd just been here a couple of months. Ruben Olivares' wife, Rebecca, when she jumped out of a forty-first-floor window. Remember that?"

Gil nodded tightly. The shock of knowing Nick connected them hadn't worn off yet; he felt shaky, dizzy with surprise.

"The cop wouldn't say anything." Huckaby twisted a lock of hair around his finger, making a wry face. "Man, he was such a dick. I think he watched too many episodes of Dragnet or something. Just the facts, ma'am.' Whatever."

Probably Brass. And he had been a dick back then. True enough.

"And Nick?"

"Well, after Sergeant Pole-Up-His-Ass left, I asked Nick what he thought. I mean, he didn't tell me jack, either, but he was a nice guy, you know? Personable. But I didn't meet him again until two days after Paul Brooks was murdered."

"How?"

"He came to me," Huckaby said simply. "He said he'd seen my story in the paper, and could we talk. Because the PD was going to call it case closed, and he didn't think that was right."

The idea of Nick – procedure-conscious Nick – going to a reporter was so outlandish, for a moment Gil couldn't think of anything to say. Finally he stuttered, "That doesn't sound like Nick. Why you? No offense, but a reporter?"

Huckaby shrugged. "I don't know what made me stick in his memory. But I said I'd meet him the next day, maybe compare a few notes. On the QT, you know. He's twenty minutes late showing up, and when he does he looks scared. Really scared. He tells me he has all this information, and he doesn't know what to do with it. I said, Show it to the cops, you know, and he says, I got a phone call this morning."

"Who?"

"Santley. Turns out Nick knows the guy from way back, friend of the family, something. And Santley tells him to sit on the stuff. Don't let it get away, but don't pursue it yet."

Gil frowned. "What in God's name did Evan Santley have to do with this?"

"Santley started an investigation into some of Henley-Jackson's financial deals, about a year earlier. Henley's based in Houston, although they're so multinational a lot of people don't know it. Santley's the Attorney General, blah blah, right?"

With a game nod, Gil said, "And the connection with Brooks? Besides the fact that his firm is a Henley-Jackson subsidiary?"

"Right." Huckaby gave an enthusiastic nod, and Gil noted reluctantly just how much like Nick's his smile really was. "So get this. Those papers that you couldn't get a look at this morning, the ones Diane Abram told you were destroyed? Nick got copies before anyone could put the fix in. Part of the investigation into his death; Brooks was keeping them at his house. Nick starts looking at this paperwork, and finds out that audit was turning up a lot of money that shouldn't have been anywhere near the Horseshoe. A hell of a lot."

"How much?"

"Two hundred million and change."

"Two hundred MILLION?"

"Not so outrageous for a big casino, but even then the Horseshoe wasn't the brightest light on the Strip, you know?"

Gil nodded. "Laundering?"

"That's what Nick thought Brooks believed."

"Henley-Jackson. Tell me what this has to do with Henley-Jackson."

"Don't you get it?" Huckaby sighed noisily. "Benton, Goldman, & Benton is owned by Henley-Jackson. Brooks was poking into a money-laundering deal without official authorization. Nobody audits a casino without everyone and their dog knowing about it first. But Brooks was sure he was onto something, something big. The numbers were there. So somebody made sure he wouldn't be around to tell anyone about it."

Gil sat back. "That's not proof Henley-Jackson is involved. You know that."

"Who else would have known what Brooks was doing? His goddamn company was a PART of Henley. Unless you buy into that crock of crap about a random break-in, there's only one company in a position to know!"

"But why would a monster conglomerate like Henley-Jackson care? It's a lot of money to you and me, but to –"

"Because the money Alfred Coppa laundered at the Horseshoe didn't stay there. And guess where it went?"

Gil gazed at him. "Where?"

Huckaby stood and strode over to a locked file cabinet, spun out the combination and opened the second drawer. He came back with a stack of thin files, and held them out. "Take a look at these."

Gil took the manila folders, but kept them in his lap unopened. "What are they?"

Huckaby flopped back down in his chair. "The first one's the official earnings report. Stockholder crap. Henley, 1998. Then there's a file for every person on the board. Company didn't do spectacularly well that year, but the big guys got bonuses. So where'd that money come from? I mean, it's no Enron, at least not yet. But if Henley didn't exaggerate that earnings report, I'm Martha Stewart."

"Where did you get this information?"

"I'm a journalist. I do this shit for a living. Or did." Huckaby drew a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. "I know: It's not ironclad proof. The proof was in the documents Nick had."

"Where are they?"

Huckaby sagged. "I don't know. He said they were in a safe place. Where that was –" He raised his hands, palms-up. "That he didn't tell me."

Gil sat back, mind working so hard he thought if he looked to the sides he'd see steam coming out of his own ears. "So," he said slowly. "Where was this money coming from?"

"Good question," Huckaby replied, nodding. "That I don't know. Wish I did. Hello, Pulitzer."

"And Santley knew about all this? The money, where it was going?"

"According to Nick, yeah. I think sometime in 1999, Santley would have announced the results of an audit of Henley. Only someone took care of him before that could happen. Without him at the wheel, it fell through."

"Or other people were scared off."

"Equally likely." Huckaby's eyes narrowed. "Nick never said a word about this to you?"

Gil shook his head. "Nothing. I wish he had."

"I didn't see him much after Santley bit it. Something happened right after that, I don't know what. We didn't talk for a long time. I was having trouble at the paper, getting those weird phone calls." He sighed. "I got scared of it. Then Nick called, about a year after Santley was shot. He said he had the stuff in a safe place, that he'd made arrangements. But what those were, he didn't tell me. After that, we talked maybe three, four times. Nothing much."

"But he didn't pursue it."

"He just said things were in motion."

Gil leaned forward. "Did Nick know the source of this extra money?"

Huckaby gnawed at his lower lip for a moment. "I don't think he did, at first. I think -- The last time we spoke, that was – God, 2002, early. February, March, something like that. He didn't tell me anything specific, but I got the feeling that he knew a hell of a lot more than he was saying. Christ, he was scared to death. He said it was the last time he'd call me, that he was sorry he'd ever gotten me involved in it. It was not long after I lost my house."

Gil hadn't even been dating Nick yet at that point. And yet that first time, that glorious insane night of too many Gibsons and too few inhibitions, Nick had been carrying this around with him, like an invisible lead-filled pack on his back. How had Gil never seen the signs? Were there none to see? How had Nick kept this all so completely from him?

"I wanted to go to the memorial," Huckaby said awkwardly. His handsome face twisted with honest regret. "I thought about it, you know? Meant to go. But I kept thinking, Nick wanted things the way they were. No contact. Brooks was dead, Santley was dead, and now Nick. Everyone I knew who'd had anything to do with that money was dead. I was too scared to go. I'm -- I'm really sorry."

Gil nodded, but the words seemed telegraphed from a very far-off place. "Who was Nick working with? At the end? What were his arrangements?'"

"I don't know. He never told me. Like I said."

"Santley was a friend of the family's?"

Huckaby nodded. "They're connected out the ass in Texas. His dad's on the Texas Supreme Court."

"Yes, I know," Gil murmured.

"Listen, you gotta understand. When Nick got his hands on those papers in Brooks's home office, he turned into – some kind of wild card. Those things were radioactive; they named names, sources. Somebody went to a hell of a lot of trouble to make sure all the evidence was destroyed. But they have to have known there was a renegade copy floating around somewhere."

Gil nodded grimly. "I need those papers."

Huckaby sat back, shaking his head. "Then I guess it's been nice knowing you, man."

"It won't come to that."

"Yeah. I bet that's what Paul Brooks thought, too."

Gil stirred. "Do you mind if I borrow these?" he asked, indicating the files. "Until I can make copies?"

"Knock yourself out. You think I'm going to do anything with them?" Huckaby shook his head again, decisively. "Wherever that money came from, it's dirty as hell."

"You think this was a one-time deal? A single payoff, maybe?"

"Maybe. Maybe not."

"Thanks for talking with me," Gil said after an awkward second. "Your help has been invaluable."

"Don't thank me," Huckaby said gruffly. A trace of color appeared in his cheeks. "And watch your back. Paranoia can keep you alive, you know."

"So noted."

Huckaby trailed him to the door, his expression wan and unhappy. "Good luck," he said, when Gil stood in the doorway. "Don't have to tell you you're gonna need it."

Gil mustered a smile. "Thanks," he said softly.

* * *

At home, he went straight to his desk, turning on the computer and rummaging for paper and pen. So much, so very much to absorb, to consider. His little flow chart in his mind had suddenly expanded radically, and he had to write it down, see it in prosaic black and white. Then maybe he'd begin to comprehend all the contorted ways it fit together.

His phone rang just after five in the afternoon. He was so absorbed in his work, he didn't pause to think who it might be this time. Simply picked up the receiver.

"Hey," Catherine said in his ear. "How you feeling?"

He blinked, reaching up to rub one eye. "Feeling?"

She sounded as if she were outdoors, speaking a little louder than usual. "Brass told me you came by the lab last night; sorry I missed you. Headache's gone?"

"I feel fine, thanks. No, I -- I have some things to work on here. You'll call me if you need me?"

"Yep. Some things?' What things?"

"Bits and pieces," he said vaguely. "I'll know more later." He sat up. "Catherine?"

"Yeah?"

"That night – after the shooting." He swallowed. "Did you go through Nick's things? His personal effects?"

Her tiny pause said she hadn't expected that line of questioning. Fine; he hadn't known he'd ask before the words came out of his mouth. "No," she said evenly. "Robbins did, when he -- You know."

"The next day I got Nick's wallet, his keys. But I never asked about his – clothing, shoes."

"Gil, they were evidence. Bagged and tagged. It's standard procedure."

"But they weren't destroyed."

"Shouldn't have been. Not yet. Why?"

"I don't believe Hector Ramos shot Nick," Gil said slowly. "Neither do you. And there could be evidence on his clothing. We should have done that long ago."

Her tone, when she spoke again, was quenched. "It's a closed case. There was no reason, Gil. I don't think Al did anything but the most cursory examination of Nick's body, even. The cause of death -- Well."

"I need your help, Catherine," Gil told her. "I need to know who killed Nick. It's – part of a larger picture. Much larger."

"How large?" was her suspicious question.

"I'm finding that out as we speak. But whoever it was, the only connection we have to them is whatever is left of Nick's clothing, effects. I need you to pull those items for me. I can come later and –"

"And do it yourself?" Instead of acerbic, her tone was gentle. "Put yourself through it? Don't do it, Gil. I'll do it."

He sat very still for a moment. "Yes," he said finally. "Maybe you're right."

"If it's not too crazy tonight, I'll get right on it. That work?"

"That works very well, yes. Thank you."

"What am I looking for?"

He sighed. "Anything. Anything at all. Maybe nothing. I don't know."

"So, basically do every test in creation."

"Right." He found a tired smile on his face. "That ought to cover it."

"Right. Could take me a while, Gil. If we get slammed –"

"I understand. As able."

"Got it."

After she hung up, he went back to his pages of notes. Before her call, he'd written "Brooks – wife?" in hurried letters. He picked up his pen and tapped it against his left knuckles.

It was a day for long shots. Why not?

* * *

Andrea Brooks, he discovered, had become Andrea Wilkinson in the years since her husband's untimely death. Fortunately she still lived in the Las Vegas area, in a tidy suburb with her new spouse and her children by her first marriage. Seated in a sunny living room, dressed in vibrant blue, all Gil could manage to see for the first few minutes was the massive mound of her extremely pregnant belly.

"I kept most of Paul's things," she told him, one foot tapping the floor. Andrea was a very pretty woman, inclined to a bit of extra weight, but looking far younger than her thirty-six years. "For a long time. It wasn't until I met Bill that I finally went through a lot of it, got rid of most of it."

"Did you keep anything related to his work? Appointments books, address books, that sort of thing?"

Her expressive blue eyes met his squarely. "Why are you interested in this now? Paul's been dead for six years. No one ever asked me for his calendars before."

Gil nodded. "I believe," he said carefully, "that a case I'm working on now may relate in some way to your husband's – your first husband's – death."

"I have a couple of boxes. They're in our storage unit, by the interstate."

"Would it be possible to have a look at those boxes?"

"Don't you need a warrant or something?"

Her tone wasn't belligerent, merely curious, and he smiled and shook his head. "Not if you give consent."

"I -- I don't mind. I mean, I haven't looked at them myself in years." Her gaze dropped. "We were very happy," she said in a slightly husky voice. "I don't like to be – reminded. I mean, don't get me wrong. Bill's a wonderful man. The kids and I, we were lucky to find him." Her faint nervous smile faded away. "But Paul was -- Paul. I don't know how to describe him."

"Before he was killed, were there any changes you noted? Did he seem at all different?"

She shook her head. "Nothing I noticed. I mean, job stress. But he always had that. He took his job very seriously, worked extremely hard. Too hard, sometimes."

"Did he ever talk to you about specific stressors? Projects he was working on?"

"If you're asking about the casino, then yes." Her chin came up. "I knew about that."

Gil gave a cautious nod. "Anything related to that? Any particular individuals he might have spoken with on the phone, or referenced when he discussed it with you?"

"Well, Don, of course. Don was his manager. Don Fargason. And Diane." Her upper lip curled slightly; he wondered if she were even aware of the expression on her face. "But they were his colleagues, he worked with them every day."

"Any odd phone calls? Anything at all?"

"I just don't know. I don't think so."

"Well, if you think –"

"Wait." She put a well-manicured hand up, her head cocked slightly to one side. "He had a business trip, about two weeks before he – passed away. I remember, because we had to juggle our schedules. The boys and I were going the next week to visit my parents in California."

Gil gave an encouraging nod. "Business trip? Where to?"

"Texas. Houston. But he was vague about it. I remember that. He said it had nothing to do with work, but then he called it a business trip. And he was – excited." She uttered a short, harsh laugh. "I never understood why he'd be excited about Houston."

A prickle tingled Gil's spine. "Do you have any idea what he did in Houston? Did he meet with someone?"

She shook her head again. "I don't know. He never told me. But right after he got back, I answered the phone and someone was calling him. I can't remember his name. I'm sorry."

"Someone from work, maybe?"

"No." Decisive. "I know them. No, I hadn't heard his name before that. Sant, Santa-something."

Gil froze. "Santley?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Maybe. That might have been it."

"Evan Santley?"

"I – think so." She raised a hand to dab delicately at one cheek. "It's been a long time. I don't know." She glanced at her watch. "I'm sorry, I -- I have to go pick up the boys. They're with their cousins; today's Skyler's birthday. My nephew."

"Of course. Thank you for taking the time to speak with me."

"Paul, he –" This time he saw brightness in her eyes that wasn't explained by the sunshine pouring in the windows. "He was a good man," she said thickly. "I know, a lot of people say that. But with Paul, it's completely true. He was a good, decent man. He had – principles. You know what I'm saying? He had – backbone."

Gil nodded slowly. "I think I do, yes."

"What that man did to him -- No one deserves that. I miss him every day, Mr. Grissom. Every single day." She wiped away the two tears that snaked down her cheeks. "Please don't tell my husband, all right? I mean, I love Bill. I do. I just -- Paul wasspecial." She cleared her throat, while he nodded awkwardly. "Will looking at Paul's things -- Will that help his death make any sense? Will it?"

"Possibly," Gil said. "It might."

She stood, moving with heavy grace. In a dish on a table near the front door, she fished out a heavy set of keys, and extracted one. "Here," she said in a voice still shivering with tears. "We have a unit at the All-Stor, on the interstate. Number 94. There isn't that much in it. Paul's -- Paul's things are in the two boxes with the Christmas tape on them." She gave a tiny, sad smile. "It was all I had at the time."

He took the key and forced himself to smile. "I appreciate it," he said softly. "I'll return this as soon as possible."

"Please mail it. I don't -- I would rather my husband didn't know you'd been here."

"Understood, Mrs. Wilkinson. I'll do that."

He tried not to see the fresh tears on her face as he went out the jaunty red-painted front door.

* * *

The sun was setting by the time he found the storage units and the Wilkinson's particular space. Inside 94 was a welter of old kids' toys, a few bits of furniture, a lot of boxes. And the ones she'd specified, shoved back into the corner and nearly covered by ancient lawn chairs.

He sneezed at the dust, and then self-consciously moved enough detritus to be able to reach the boxes, toting them out to stow in the back of his truck. Feeling guilty, he carefully locked the unit behind him, studiously trying not to think of Andrea Wilkinson and the love she still obviously felt for her long-dead first husband. Would that be him, six years from now? Possibly with someone else, but always finding that person somehow less than the man he'd replaced? Would Nick become idealized in his mind, an object of myth, rendered so perfect by his memory that no one else could possibly match up?

He sneezed again as he climbed into his vehicle, and drove away.

When he got home it was fully dark, and windy; he was glad for the garage door holding out the blowing dust as he carefully unloaded Paul Brooks's last few earthly possessions. Setting the boxes on the living room floor, he took out his pocket knife and carefully slit through the gay green-and-red packing tape.

Four hours later, his feet were completely numb, sitting so long in an awkward half-lotus on the tile floor. He was surrounded by the contents of the two boxes, but near at hand was a stack of what he'd so hoped to find: calendars, address books, and two small spiral notebooks holding what appeared to be figures and notes from various audits Brooks had conducted. Unlike Nick's journeyman-neat writing, Brooks wrote in a haphazard scrawl, making some of the pages a bit like deciphering hieroglyphics.

But within those books, he found four references to Evan Santley. The Houston meeting Andrea Wilkinson had mentioned was not the first time Brooks and Santley had contact. In fact there had been three previous meetings, to his eyes. Certainly there were no names named, but within the six months preceding his violent death Paul Brooks had gone four times to Houston. Twice they appeared to be very short trips – overnights – but the last two had been lengthier. He'd come back from the final trip only four days before his death.

And he'd met with Evan Santley each time. Gil was sure of it. Santley, who'd been preparing a case against Henley-Jackson, one that would have linked most of the board members to an extremely illegal flow of money from a limping old casino in Las Vegas, owned by a man with generations of Mob blood flowing through his plaque-clogged veins. Santley, who just might have been the person to set Brooks, an idealist in his wife's eyes, on a course to investigate the questions that had gotten him killed. Santley, who had died choking on his own blood on his doorstep almost exactly a year later.

And after Brooks was out of the picture, why, Santley had evidently turned to Nick. The man who didn't believe Javier Lewis was dumb enough to take off his gloves and then use a crowbar to turn Brook's head to mush. The man who, a week later, contacted a local reporter about the connection between the Horseshoe, Brooks, and a company that hadn't been out of the Forbes top ten in at least twenty years. Nick, who made a trip of his own to Houston the following October.

Three dead men. All connected, and the strongest bond holding them together was a monster conglomerate whose very name commanded the utmost respect in boardrooms worldwide. From a start in Texas oil to multiple lucrative defense contracts, to spreading into computer hardware and multinational banking, and God knew how many other side interests.

Gil laid the last appointment book on the nearest pile, and stretched his legs, sighing gustily. And nowhere in all that pile of information, all the notes and copies and originals, was there a single clue as to where that laundered money originated. It had appeared out of thin air, scrubbed by Alfred Coppa's efficient Mafia infrastructure and spat out the other side, newly minted and sent to line the accounts of a group of men and women who, by all accounts, were already more than wealthy. What had that money bought? Good will? Greased some wheels? Whose? Henley-Jackson had an open ticket, much of the time. Even with the comparative economic crunch going on today, Henley wasn't the sort of company that folded. Too huge, too entrenched. In hard times they could sell off a few subsidiaries, endure some stock fluctuations. But the war now meant that the company's multiple defense contracts more than made up for other shortcomings.

His phone rang while he was rubbing his tingling feet and thinking distractedly about ordering some food. Chinese sounded good, moo shu pork. Dumplings, or egg rolls. Might put one or two of those lost pounds back on, but he'd been working hard, right?

He thought about his mystery caller, almost hoped it was him this time. But it was Catherine, sounding a little remote.

"You weren't asleep, were you?"

"No, not even close." He stood with effort, making a face at the pins and needles in the soles of his feet. "What's up?"

"We were lucky; it's been a slow night." She still sounded a bit off. Distracted. "I've been going through Nick's things. Everything was there, just like it should be."

He padded through to the kitchen, searching for the delivery menus. Used to keep them stuck on the refrigerator with magnets, but since Nick's death he'd put them in the drawer beneath the microwave. Didn't use them as much any longer. "Good. Find anything?"

"It's -- Gil, I did find another person's DNA. I mean, besides the ones you'd expect."

He paused with the menu clutched in his hand. "Whose?"

"It's not anything we have on record. I found a few complete hair follicles, and I've just got the preliminary analysis. I'll – have more in a little while."

"But no hits." Gil leaned his hip against the counter, sagging a little. "It was worth a shot, I suppose."

"There's – something else."

"What?"

"Okay." He heard her take a deep breath. "I've got Nick's DNA in here. I mean, like you'd expect. But the mystery DNA -- There's a lot of it. A lot of it's blood."

Gil frowned. "Blood?"

"Yeah. Gil, this shirt, it's soaked. Like you'd expect. But it's -- Jesus, I don't know how to say this."

"For God's sake, just tell me," Gil said thinly. "What about Nick's blood?"

"That's the thing," she said in a glassy voice. "This isn't Nick's blood."

For a moment all he could do was stare into space. Finally he managed a stupefied, "What?"

"I'm saying whoever bled all over this shirt -- It wasn't Nick."

From a very high place, somewhere far above where his body stood transfixed in his cool kitchen, he watched the restaurant menu flutter to the floor.

* * *

TBC. EB 


	12. Twelve

**Afterlife**

**By EB**

**(c)2004**

**Chapter Twelve**

The paper rattled in his hands. For some reason he couldn't stop this infernal shaking. The rest of him felt calm. But his hands were so cold, and not even the strongest exertion of will could make them stop trembling.

He caught the look of pity in Catherine's eyes, and set the printout on his desk. His hands he hid in his lap. "You're right," he said hoarsely. "It's not Nick's blood."

His office door was closed. Jim Brass and Catherine sat tensely in the two chairs near his desk, wearing identical anxious expressions. Never mind that it was past three in the morning, and both of them were quite likely needed for more official pursuits. No one had to say it: This took precedence.

"Christ," Brass said, sounding as rattled as Gil had ever heard him. He scratched his scalp, and Gil took a little bleak satisfaction seeing those fingers were shaking, too. "This just isn't fucking possible. I was THERE, Gil, I saw him."

"You didn't see the shooting." Catherine didn't look at him. Her attention was still focused on Gil. "You saw the aftermath. I know it sounds crazy. But it's possible, all right."

"So what does it mean?" Brass glared at her. "You saying Nicky isn't dead?"

"I don't know."

Her hollow tone stirred something inside Gil; he sat up, tried to force some spit into his ash-dry mouth. "There's only one way to be absolutely sure." To his own ears his voice sounded like an old man's. Tremulous, weak.

Catherine's color got even worse. "They'll never agree to it," she said in a low, tight voice. "Jesus, Gil."

Brass looked back and forth between them. "What?"

Gil shrugged. "With this evidence, they'll have to."

"He's Catholic. He's buried in consecrated ground. You'll need the Church's permission as well as the state's."

"I'll get it."

"You're gonna ask for an exhumation order, aren't you?" Brass blew an explosive sigh. "Aw, Jesus."

"He's in TEXAS, Gil," Catherine snapped. "Even if you get the order, you can't bring his body back here. They'd never agree to that."

He gave a curt nod. "Then I'll have the autopsy conducted in Dallas."

"And what do you think his family will have to say about this? They'll fight you every step of the way."

"I think they'd want to know if it was really Nick buried in that grave. Do you think it is?"

She swallowed. "What I think doesn't matter."

"Yes. Yes, it does." He leaned forward. "You did the tests. You called me. You saw this with your own eyes. You think I'm wrong to believe further investigation is called for? If this were anyone but Nick, you'd be agreeing with me!"

"I don't want you to get your hopes up," she said stiffly. "We don't know exactly what happened that night. We don't."

"No, we don't. But it's our job to find that out, Catherine. Without exhuming the body we can't proceed. And I can't leave it at that. I can't. I refuse."

"It isn't proof, Gil!"

"It's reasonable doubt," he countered coldly. "That's all I need."

"Question is, what the judge will need," Brass said. He sounded too calm, and Gil glared at him. Unruffled, Brass continued, "We got no jurisdiction in Texas. It'll all be up to the judge there."

Catherine seemed to shrink a little, sagging in her chair. "God, his poor parents," she whispered.

And what about ME? Gil felt like snapping. He was MY lover! MY partner! But he forced the impulse down, shoved it to the side to say instead, "I'd feel sorrier for them if they went on believing their son was dead, when he's not."

Catherine's haunted eyes met his. "And if he is?" she said softly. "And we've all gotten our hopes up? What then, Gil?"

He couldn't keep looking at her. Too honest. "I'll worry about that later."

"Just – full steam ahead? Damn the consequences?"

Ignoring her, he focused on Brass. "I'll speak with Robbins. We'll need an initial authorization from him. Then the official request can be forwarded to the Texas state medical examiner's office."

"You asking me or telling me?"

Gil didn't reply to that, either. He stood, trying to ignore the way his knees quaked shamefully beneath him. "I need to find Al."

"Grissom, hold up a second."

When he looked around, Brass was standing, too. "You realize what this all means, right? You're calling for an official investigation. That means making all of this public. It reopens Nick's case. Brooks, too. It all comes out, Gil. You want that?"

"The longer we can keep it quiet, the better," Gil said after a moment. "The rest, I don't give a damn about. All right? Do what you have to do."

Catherine sighed. "Gil, what –"

"I don't care!" he snarled. "Just do it!"

If she said anything else, he didn't hear it. He was out the door, striding down the hall.

* * *

"God almighty."

Robbins had looked rather tired when Gil first buttonholed him near his office. Now he looked exhausted, and deeply shocked. "You're telling me that body wasn't Nick's?" His eyes met Gil's, haunted. "But there was never a question. He was ID'ed five times over. There was no reason for a full autopsy."

"Not then, no." Gil kept his voice level with difficulty. The urge – the NEED – to do something active was almost physically painful. "We had no reason to suspect it wasn't exactly as it appeared to be. Now we do. That's my point."

"I won't be allowed to do the autopsy in Dallas," Robbins said. "You realize that."

"I understand that. But I'd like you to be there. With me."

"Gil, I'm not sure this is sufficient to prompt the state M.E. to authorize an exhumation. I admit it's compelling, but not conclusive."

"Elizabeth McMartin is the Dallas County D.A. She also happens to be Nick's mother. Believe me, she'll make it happen."

Robbins's look was eloquent. "That assumes," he said gently, "that she concurs. Have you told her about your suspicions yet?"

"Of course I haven't. And they aren't suspicions, Al. They're evidence. Whose blood was it? If it wasn't Nick's?"

"The M.E. will then need an order from the circuit court. And all of this is in Texas, not Nevada. I have no authority there. I'd just be an observer."

"But the shooting happened in Nevada. You've got plenty of authority here."

Robbins gave a grudging nod. After a long moment he said, "This is going to make a lot of people very, very unhappy, Gil. Are you prepared for that? Truly?"

"I want the truth. I have to know if it's – Nick, in that grave." His voice creaked annoyingly, and he cleared his throat. "Because if it isn't--"

He couldn't go on, to his shame, and Robbins didn't appear to expect him to do so. "I'm not disagreeing with you," he said. "But I'd be remiss if I didn't bring up the problems I perceive."

"Duly noted." Gil swallowed. "You'll issue your authorization?"

"For what it's worth. The rest will be out of my hands."

"Understood."

"Do I ask the obvious question?"

Gil met his eyes. "If it isn't Nick," he said slowly, "where is he?" He gave a bleak snort. "Who's buried in Nick's tomb, something like that?"

"My thinking as well."

"I don't know. Of course I don't know." A hard, painful bubble rose in his chest, something hot and acidic. "Are you asking me if Nick allowed me – us – to believe he was dead when he wasn't? Isn't? I don't know that, either."

Robbins's chair creaked as he shifted uneasily. "Even with this new evidence, the likelihood that Nick is still alive is remote at best, Gil. Otherwise, why not contact you? You, of all people? Much less his family. It would be stunningly cruel."

"If – he's alive – there must be a reason for his silence. Something compelling."

"Are you prepared to find out after all this that he's not alive?"

Gil sat very still. "I don't know," he said dully. "I don't know anything any longer. I truly don't."

"If I can offer some advice? Before you do anything else, you have to speak with Nick's parents. They deserve to know what it is you're doing. Why you're doing it."

"I'm going to Dallas. Today."

He hadn't known he was doing it until he said it, but it felt right. It felt good, motion, decisions. In the midst of turmoil, at least he had one concrete goal.

"Fine, but if you want me to go with you, I'll need more notice than that."

"When we get the order. Then."

Robbins nodded very slowly. "All right. If you get it. Then yes. Then I'll come."

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me, Gil." He looked away. "I don't know how this will end. I truly don't."

Gil put his hands on the arms of his chair and stood. "I have to go. You'll keep me informed?"

"Of course. Likewise?"

"Yeah."

"Gil? Be careful. Above all else."

He said, "Yes," even though he felt suddenly like laughing. Careful? How was that possible?

* * *

He booked an 0700 flight out, and at home threw a few things in his overnight bag. When had he last used it? When he made this same trip, for Nick's funeral? Now he was going back, the same airline, the same bag, to undo what had been done before. Insanity. It went against his nature, not thinking, not pausing to consider the ramifications.

With a silent snarl he zipped his bag and slung it over his shoulder. Ramifications be damned.

On his way out he stopped at his desk. When would he be back? There was no answer to that question yet. This trip could be a lengthy one. He pulled out his file drawer and extracted the heavy files containing Nick's various safety-deposit box items. Better to be safe, yes. Or at least well-equipped.

By 0715 he was in the air over Nevada, watching sightlessly out of a business-class window and nodding when the flight attendant asked him if he'd like some coffee. Yes, yes, bring on the caffeine. By all means. I don't think I'll sleep again for another year or two.

The rest of the in-flight service he turned away, killing time alternately studying the printouts of Catherine's analysis and staring at the white hillocks of cloud underneath the plane. Ramifications. Yes, there would be those. Neither Cath nor Jim had ever met Nick's parents. Gil had.

Relations between himself and Nick's family had always been good. Granted, he didn't know most of Nick's siblings all that well. But his parents, yes. Liz McMartin was a formidable woman, and he felt steady enough there to call her a friend. Hank, perhaps less so – he'd accepted Gil's unsanctified relationship with his younger son with admirable good grace, but there was always a touch of reserve there, a father silently but admittedly disappointed that there would be no grandchildren from this son's particular loins. Nor quite sure of Nick's much older, grayer significant other. Respect, there was; liking, less so.

All of that was normally not problematic. Now, with all of them still recovering from the shock and grief of Nick's untimely death, matters were altogether different. Gil's willy-nilly mix of job and personal involvement made his judgement suspect. Hank was an old-style paterfamilias; his deep faith and unstinting loyalty to the Church meant exhumation of human remains was almost certainly next to anathema to him, his job be damned. As it were.

It was Liz who would be able to sway her husband, if she herself were convinced of the need. It was Liz Gil planned to speak with, before anyone else. Even if he had to wait outside a courtroom to buttonhole her.

And that left Nick's siblings. They'd go with their parents' opinions, for the most part; even Jamie would, almost certainly. Cabe, who knew? And thinking of Cabe, Gil sat up a bit straighter in his seat.

What had Cabe done during his mysterious Vegas trip? Hunted for the key? It was the only answer to why he'd sought out Warrick, after having no luck with Nick's boxes. Had he had something to do with this?

A chill like pure ice ran up his spine. Did Cabe know the truth? Did Cabe know what had really happened to Nick that night?

If Nick really was still alive, did his brother know where he was?

No one else did. Gil was sure of it. That grief had been too real. There was nothing feigned about Nick's family's anguish. It had been Hank who wept, and Liz who sat stoically dry-eyed throughout the long funeral Mass. But at the graveside, even Liz had not been able to contain her grief, and her tears were the only ones that made Gil feel as if he, too, might weep. He hadn't. But yes, seeing Nick's mother's laudable reserve finally crumble had nearly been his own undoing.

He accepted a refill of his coffee, and waved away the snack. It all led back to the aspect he so desperately hated contemplating. If Nick was alive, where was he? Why had he not contacted him? Had this been a last-minute, desperate move? Faking his own death? If so, where in God's name had he gotten the body?

No. No, that was simply inconceivable. Not only that Nick might do such a monstrous thing, but that he COULD do it. Logistically, he might occasionally have access to an unclaimed dead body. But whoever had been shot – and Gil was sure, bone-deep positive, that it had not been Nick – he had been very much alive at the time of the shooting. The degree of staging required to fake that with an already expired corpse, and the amount of time Nick had had, were prohibitive. No, their dead man had begun that evening as a live one.

He leaned his chin on his hand, letting his forehead rest against the bulkhead. He had nothing. Nothing but hundreds of questions, that no one could answer. No one, save perhaps Cabe. And Cabe was in Houston. Houston, where all roads seemed to lead these days.

The captain's metallic voice announcing their approach to Dallas-Fort Worth shocked him. He swallowed over a suddenly bone-dry tongue. So this was it. Push had now officially come to shove. Very soon now things would be in motion. Things that, once started, could not be undone. Was he prepared for this? Really?

He tightened his seatbelt, and couldn't decide how to answer that.

* * *

He pulled his rental car off Industrial Boulevard and into a parking space, and sat motionless for a long moment. Then, moving with precision, he picked up his briefcase and climbed out.

As he'd feared, Liz McMartin was in court this morning, but her secretary told him she'd be back in her office by midday. Devoutly hoping she was right, he took the time to grab another cup of coffee and a muffin in the cafeteria, and then parked himself in the foyer, alertly watching the door.

The secretary, a matronly Hispanic woman, nodded at him at five minutes before one. "She's in her office," she told him as he approached her desk. "Go on in."

McMartin's office was a stately paneled room, befitting someone of her legal stature. But the smile on her face was purely personal, lighting up what could be a stern square-jawed visage and making it almost youthful. "Gil," Liz said, walking across the carpet and reaching out to take his hand in both of hers. "It's wonderful to see you."

Her kiss on his cheek was cool and dry, but he squeezed her hands just as hard as his own were squeezed in return. "Hi, Liz," Gil said thickly. "Sorry to just drop in like this. Is this a good time?"

"Are you kidding?" She snorted. "Around this zoo there's no such thing as a convenient time. Which means you're just fine. Come on, have a seat."

The chair she installed him in was absurdly comfortable, and for a moment, waiting for her to sit, he felt the impact of no sleep, of the frantic activity of the past couple of days. He was exhausted. And there would be no time to rest. Not for a while.

Liz's dark eyes weren't fooled. "I hope you don't mind me saying this, but you look like hell. What brings you to Dallas? I hope it's the food, but I have a feeling it's not."

Meeting her intuitive gaze, Gil felt a little humbled. "No," he agreed. "I wish it were that."

"So you're not just stopping by to see if you can take me to lunch."

"I'd like to take you to lunch, yes. I – need to speak with you. As privately as possible."

She gave a slow nod. "Well, you're in luck, at least somewhat. I'm through with court for the day. I do have a meeting at two, one that I probably shouldn't miss." She glanced at her watch. "I could fudge it, be a little late. He'll be pissed, but he'll be too nervous to take it out on me."

Gil licked his lips, choosing his words carefully. "I think," he said, "that you might not want to go to a meeting after we've spoken."

She said nothing for a moment, and he felt a little twinge, seeing the way the family-friendly look faded away, replaced by reserve. He'd scared her with that. But no help for it. She would feel much worse, soon enough.

"This isn't good news, is it?" she asked softly, finally.

"No. No, I'm afraid it's not. Or rather, not all of it."

She paused again, and then gave a crisp nod. "I've changed my mind. I think Mr. Deakins can wait after all." She picked up her phone and punched a single number. "Dolores? I need you to cancel Deakins for me. I know. I'll make it up to him later. Something's come up. Who? Did I say I'd talk with him today? God. Yes, call him, too. No, I'll be out of the office this afternoon. Family emergency. Yes. Thank you, dear."

"I'm sorry," he whispered dully. For a second he felt as if he might simply burst into tears, the way he had not, back in August.

"Gil?" Liz's reserve had shattered; now she looked shocked. "Are you all right?"

"I apologize. I think I'm – tired." He forced a smile, and saw that it hadn't worked; her expression was just as fearful as before. "Maybe we could – go. I'll be better with some fresh air."

"Of course." But her worried eyes didn't leave him, as she picked up a capacious bag and slung it over her shoulder.

They left by a back stairway he hadn't known was there, and by the time they reached sunshine, he felt a little more in control of himself. Enough that he could get in her perfume-scented car, nod when she asked if some restaurant or another would be all right. It didn't matter. He couldn't imagine being hungry, ever again.

"Does this have to do with Nick?" Liz asked, after steering them into traffic. Her voice was level, completely calm.

"Yes."

"Of course it does." She drew a deep breath and glanced at him, sighing. "Will this involve the rest of the family?"

"It will involve everyone," Gil said softly. "And more besides."

She didn't speak again, until the car was parked and they were inside a dim, quiet restaurant. The bespectacled host led them to an isolated table near the back, and Gil slid into the leather booth feeling as if he'd just stuck his head into the guillotine.

"I'd like a vodka martini, with three olives," Liz told the server, and glanced at Gil. "Have something alcoholic," she added gruffly. "You look as if you need it."

His smile didn't feel quite so fake this time. "The same," he said, nodding.

Their drinks appeared quickly, and Liz sent the server away, telling her they might or might not be eating. When she'd gone, Liz picked up her martini and said, "Before anything else. To family."

"To family," Gil agreed, and touched her glass with his own.

Liz tasted the drink and then set her glass down. "Now. What's got you so worked up you came all the way to Dallas just to take a girl to lunch?"

As much as he appreciated her stab at lightness, he couldn't share it. He took a big swallow of his martini, and then reached for his briefcase. "Some things have come up. Unexpected things."

"So I gathered."

"We'll need more than one martini for this."

"Well, we're in the right place. Best in town."

"I went through Nick's things about a month after his death. I found a couple of things I couldn't quite explain. A life-insurance policy I didn't know about." He slipped the folder out of his case. "And a key."

When they ordered their second round, Liz absently ordered several appetizers, something for them to nibble on. But by the time the savory-smelling food arrived, her appetite had evidently fled, as well; whatever she'd gotten, it was wasted. She ate nothing that afternoon, and neither did he.

Unlike others he'd filled in on various bits of the strange, long tale, Liz said next to nothing while he spoke. Listened, intently, and nodded occasionally when he looked his clarification at her. But otherwise she was silent and nearly motionless, only moving to sip desultorily at her bottomless drink.

He himself felt a little dizzy, long before he'd gotten to the part that had brought him here. But he kept going, and finally he heard himself saying that Catherine's DNA testing had showed the blood on Nick's shirt to belong to someone else.

Liz's flinch stopped him cold, and then he jumped too as her hand flew out, knocking over her glass and not stopping until her fingers covered her mouth.

"Liz," Gil said helplessly, reaching out to pick up the overturned glass.

Her eyes squeezed shut, and she rocked back against the cushion, saying nothing, breathing noisily through her nose.

Having pictured this moment so many times on the way here, he'd thought he was prepared. As prepared as it was possible to be, at least. But now he heard Catherine's voice inside his head

his poor parents

and wondered.

When Liz finally opened her eyes again, it was to send him a look of such anguish he felt gut-punched. Her hand shot out again, this time to grasp his wrist, slim fingers clinging hard. "Is he alive?" she asked in a hoarse, unrecognizable voice. "Is he? Tell me!"

"I don't know. I mean that. It's what I'm here to find out."

"Here?" She coughed something between a laugh and a sob. "Why here? We have a grave marker here, Gil, that's all."

"I know," he said softly. "That grave -- Liz, that's why I'm here."

She didn't meet his eyes, sliding out of the booth and walking to an alcove shrouding the bathrooms.

Well. He seemed to always end up sitting at tables these days, waiting for distraught companions to rejoin him. But unlike Brass, whose guilt Gil was there to assuage, he'd inflicted new pain this time. He'd cut Nick's mother off at the knees, and all based on the faint hope inherent in one lonely DNA test.

Round and round, Gil thought numbly, and where she stops, nobody knows. He picked up his drink and downed the remaining swallow.

He'd ordered coffee for them – another reminder of Jim Brass and a meal no one had eaten – and was sipping his own when Liz finally returned. Her makeup was repaired; only the red rims of her eyes gave away the truth. She picked up the coffee cup and drank half before regarding him.

"You came to exhume his body," she said in an inflectionless voice.

He set his own cup back in the saucer. "I have the M.E.'s authorization in my briefcase."

"And you want me to support you in this."

He considered his words carefully. "I would prefer it, yes. Based on the DNA evidence, however, I'll proceed regardless."

The chilly veneer cracked as she gave a slow nod. "All kinds of shit will hit the fan if you're wrong."

"I realize that. And if there were any other way, believe me, I'd take it. Anything at all."

She said nothing, finishing the rest of her coffee as quickly as the first half. Then she drew a deep breath. "If there's a stranger buried in my son's grave," she said hoarsely, "I want to know about it. We'll get the order. It may take a day or two."

He nodded, throat tight. "I understand. I'm sorry."

Something fiery and very like hatred burned in her eyes, and he wasn't entirely sure at least some of it wasn't meant for him. Her next words, however, gave him a bit of hope.

"You'll stay at the house, of course. Won't you?"

"If you want me to. Yes, I'd like that."

She studied the dregs of her coffee, and then smiled, sadly. "I'm not the only person at this table in pain," she said in a gentler voice. "This must have come as just as terrible a shock for you as for me."

It was his turn to look down. "Yes. On top of everything else, I –"

He didn't go on, and she didn't prompt him. A moment later their server appeared, and Gil took out a few bills with trembling fingers, shaking his head when the girl asked if he wanted change.

"Come on," Liz said, picking up her purse. "We have a lot to do."

* * *


	13. Thirteen

**Afterlife**

**By EB**

**(c)2004**

**Chapter Thirteen**

"My neighbors are going to have a field day with this," Liz remarked, turning the key in the lock. "Liz Stokes, bringing home a young man."

"Not that young," Gil said dryly.

"Next to me, you look like a teenager, honey."

He rather doubted that, but just smiled.

The house was immaculate, as always: a showplace, beautifully landscaped and decorated, ready for a slot on a home tour. Until two years ago, Liz and Hank had still lived in the house where they'd raised their seven children, a rambling two-story Colonial. But it was far too big for two people as busy as they were, and so the old place had been sold, replaced with this Georgian affair. It didn't look particularly lived-in, because it wasn't very; Hank kept a townhouse in Austin, where he lived more than half the year while he was working, and Liz herself didn't make that much of a mark. It was beautiful, and rather forbidding, although Gil would have bitten his own tongue off rather than say as much.

Liz put her keys on the spindly-legged table near the door and kicked off her shoes. "Want a drink? I do."

"That'd be good, thank you."

"The guest bedroom's upstairs, down the hall, last door on the left. Put your bag up and I'll make the drinks."

He stowed his suitcase in the indicated bedroom. He and Nick had never stayed with Nick's parents as a couple; visited, yes, but their trips to Dallas had been few, and they'd bunked with Megan's family, Nick's middle sister. That house had been cluttered and noisy with three children and two dogs. This bedroom felt like a hotel room, not at all welcoming.

He glanced in the mirror over the dresser and reached up to finger his chin. Needed a shave, and he'd love a shower, while he was at it. But scruffy and road-rumpled would have to do right now. Liz was right. They had a lot of work ahead of them.

Downstairs, Liz was already sipping another martini, and Gil took the second glass. Seating herself at an elegant cherrywood desk, Liz said, "If I'm lucky I can catch a couple of people still in the office."

Gil stood awkwardly still, drink untasted in his hand. "What about Hank?"

She didn't look at him. "Hank comes later. I know what I'm doing, Gil."

He gave a nod she didn't see, and finally sat in a chair near the desk.

By seven Liz Stokes had called two judges, the Dallas County medical examiner's office, and someone who Gil believed just might have been the governor. He wasn't sure; the alcohol was cutting in, and he was exhausted and vaguely sick at his stomach.

"You have to call him," Gil said when Liz hung up the phone again. "Please, Liz. Tell him what we're doing."

Other than a vaguely thoughtful expression, her face was blank, regarding him as if he were nothing more than another piece of furniture in the room. "I've got to call the service," she remarked. "I need to messenger your test results to Peter Wise. ME."

"Elizabeth," Gil urged, leaning forward. "Nick's father needs to be told."

"I can't!" she snapped. "Not yet."

"Why? For God's sake, Liz –"

"Because he won't support it. You don't know what you're dealing with here, Gil, you never have." Liz touched her empty martini glass, and closed her eyes briefly. "You're Catholic, or at least you started out that way. You know the Church's stance on exhumation."

"But –"

"It has to be done. And it won't be, if Hank finds out. Not until it's a done deal. Then I'll call him."

"Jesus," Gil whispered. "Liz, that could mean -- You're sacrificing your marriage –"

"There is nothing," she said coldly, "nothing on this earth I would not do for my son." Her voice broke on the last word, and she cleared her throat. "Nothing. I believe in God, Gil, I believe in my faith. But I won't have some virginal priest telling me I have to accept what's happened to Nick. My husband can divorce me, and the Church can goddamn well excommunicate me, but I WILL find out the truth." Her eyes felt like embers placed against his skin; her gaze burned. "If Nick is alive -- Then I'll find out. And God help the people who stand in my way."

He had no choice but to nod.

* * *

As it happened, Liz Stokes never had to call her husband at all. Someone, it was clear by the following morning, had taken it upon themselves to fill him in. And Gil awoke, groggy and disoriented in an unfamiliar bedroom in a strange house, to a crucifying headache and the sound of raised voices. 

He bit back a moan and made himself get out of bed. He knew that second voice. Knew it well, even if he'd never heard it raised in anger. Nick's father was home.

He showered fast after swallowing a handful of Excedrin, put on the least wrinkled of the clothes he'd brought, and patted his hair down before venturing down the stairs. Long before he saw Hank, he knew it was worse than he'd thought. This was the worst combination of factors: personal grief and fury mixed with the righteous indignation of the unquestioningly faithful. And Liz was meeting him every inch of the way.

"He's our SON," she said, in a tone so arctic Gil felt the chill in his bones. "And he might very well be ALIVE. I don't give a damn about your ethics! I want my son back!"

Pausing outside the door, Gil drew a deep breath, listening to Hank's retort. "It's a sacrilege," he told her, heat to her frost. "Who put you up to this?"

"No one PUT ME UP to anything, Henry! For God's sake –"

"Yes, for His sake! You hid this from me, you called the GOVERNOR'S office, and all because you knew how our Church feels about this! It's against everything we stand for!"

"We stand for truth. And if that grave is a lie, I'll find out."

"There are other ways, Liz!"

"What other ways? Tell me, and I'll do it! But this –" Gil heard paper rattling. "This says that blood isn't Nick's! Who did we bury? Who did we GRIEVE for, Hank?"

A tiny silence, and Hank gave a throttled inarticulate sound. "I'm calling Father Lenier. Maybe he can make you see what you're –"

Gil froze in place when Hank came around the corner. Rearing back, gray eyes narrowing with mixed surprise and no surprise at all. "Well," Hank said after a beat. "It's the DNA man himself."

"Hank," Gil agreed slowly.

Liz appeared in the doorway, face white and drawn. "Gil, please give us a moment."

"Of –"

"No." Hank kept on gazing at him. A tiny smile played at the corners of his mouth. "I should have known this was your idea," he said to Gil. "Exhumation's all in a day's work for you, isn't it? Let's have another look." He advanced a step. "I won't sacrifice my son's immortal soul for your grasping at theories," Hank said viciously. "I held my peace with Nick's decisions, because he was an adult, and it was his right. But now he's dead, and I'll be DAMNED if I let you keep interfering!"

Gil made himself nod. "If he's dead," he said as steadily as he could, "then I'll bow out and leave you to it. But I'm not convinced he is. Liz isn't, either. And I don't know of any other way to prove who is in Nick's grave."

"You can justify this all you like, but it's still an abomination."

"The abomination," Gil retorted, "was the manner in which we were meant to believe Nick died. The abomination would be letting go when we know the evidence suggests something to the contrary. Tell me, Hank, what's more important to you? Your church, or your son?"

Hank's mouth worked, and then he gave a hoarse thick cry and punched Gil in the jaw.

For an admittedly elderly man, Hank Stokes had kept in shape. The blow sent Gil sprawling backward, landing on his ass on the third stair step and catching a rap on the wall that immediately rendered his entire right arm numb. He sat stunned on the stair, reaching up to finger his jaw with his functional left hand, while Liz grabbed her husband's arm and held on tight.

"HENRY! My GOD, stop this!"

"Get out of my house," Hank grated, ignoring her and staring with lethal focus down at Gil. "Get out!"

"He'll do no such thing," Liz said, brushing past him. "He was Nick's partner. He has every right –"

"Nick is DEAD!"

"NO!" She whirled, faced him so close their noses were almost touching. "He's NOT!"

"Liz –"

"Nick is ALIVE!" She grasped Hank's suit collar, actually gave it a shake. "Your son is nowhere near that grave! There's no sacrilege! There's JUSTICE!"

He went very still, staring at her with eyes so terrible Gil had to look away.

"Don't you see?" Liz continued in a slightly softer voice. "Oh, Hank, we didn't bury our son that day. Wherever Nick was, it wasn't there. And we can PROVE that."

"He would have told us." Hank shook his head slowly. "He would never have let us believe -- Believe that he was –"

"Maybe he couldn't. Maybe whatever made this happen, he was afraid for us, too. For Gil. For everyone. And maybe when we have the truth, we can HELP him. Hank, don't make me do this alone." Her voice shook, her hands dropping to hang limp at her sides. "Don't push me away when Nick needs us BOTH. Please, oh God, please."

Hank's wandering eyes searched out Gil, stared at him with a new flavor of intensity. "Who is it?" he asked hoarsely. "Who did we bury?"

Gil's jaw ached miserably. He sighed. "I don't know that yet. But it's not your son."

"Where -- Where is –"

"I don't know where he is. God, I wish I did."

Hank reached out to touch the wall, bracing himself against it. His age showed terribly in his face, deep lines gouged into the skin. "I grieve for him every day," he said dully. "I think every day, My son is dead. My sweet son, my CHILD. He was – such a good man, I can't –"

Gil sat very still, not daring to touch his throbbing face, while Hank crumbled, finally let his wife touch him, put her arms around him and her face against the starched white fabric over his chest.

"We'll find him," she whispered, eyes closed. "Hank, we'll find him, we'll get him out of – whatever he's gotten into. But we have to see that body. We have to. There's no other way to proceed."

He said nothing to her, but his hand stroked her back, and finally his terrible gaze lifted. "Sorry I hit you," he told Gil huskily.

Gil nodded.

* * *

One benefit to being in Texas, Gil soon saw, was how expedited everything was after that. Nick's parents, as Nick himself had a few times admitted to Gil, were very well-connected indeed, both at the state and, somewhat less so, at the federal level as well. The Stokeses knew a great number of people, and in the way of politics, were quick to call in their markers. 

The result was a rapid progression toward the exhumation of Nick's gravesite. By Gil's third day in Dallas, everything was in place. All that remained was a circuit-court judge's signature, and since that particular judge had been a personal friend for years, not to mention hired Cabe Stokes as a clerk fresh out of law school, that was pretty much a shoo-in.

That evening, Gil called Al Robbins.

"I've already reserved your ticket. All you need to do is show up in the morning."

Robbins paused briefly, then said, "All right, then. You remember my caveats?"

"All I want is to make sure things are done right, Al. Would you be satisfied yourself with anything less?"

"Probably not," Robbins agreed. "True."

"I'll see you at the airport."

"You're sure you know what you're doing, Gil?"

Gil sighed. "I think so. But it's out of my hands at this point in any case. Once Nick's family got involved…"

"Well, if I'm taking tomorrow off for a trip to Texas, I have things to finish up. Call me if there are any changes."

"Of course."

There weren't any, of course, and he drove the next morning back to DFW with a hot, tight ball of dread already solidified in his belly. Nick's – or whoever's – body had been in the ground long enough to seriously degrade. What they would be digging up would look terrible and smell worse. He remembered Nick's smell, that sweet summery smell. But there would be no summer present in the autopsy bay. Only a different kind of bloated sweetness, the ripe richness of decay.

And beneath that surface anxiety, a dread of a wholly different flavor. Because what if, after all this, after this struggle and confrontation and perseverance, it turned out that the only person buried in Nick's grave was Nick himself? Nick, who had been dead nearly three months? What if no one had been wrong? What if –

He took a sharp turn and gritted his teeth, forcing those thoughts down. No, wherever Nick was, in whatever shape, he was a long way from that shady cemetery with the many silently beautiful grave markers in Highland Park. Gil didn't know why yet, didn't have any but a few tantalizing fragments of a far, far larger puzzle, but this much he did know. It would not be Nick they exhumed today.

It felt both odd and very, very good to see Al Robbins in the bustling terminal. He wore a backpack, having efficiently navigated the crowds. His bearded face was a sight to salve Gil's homesick eyes.

Safely ensconced in the car, Robbins gave Gil a penetrating look. "Have you slept since you got here?"

Gil put the rental in gear and glanced around for traffic. "More than you might think," he said absently. "Just a headache."

"Not surprising, considering the stress you're under. Nice bruise there." He lifted his chin, indicating Gil's discolored jaw. "Do I want to know?"

"I'll be all right."

"Everyone sends their best, of course."

"I appreciate that," Gil said awkwardly.

It was refreshing to see the gravitas with which the Dallas staff approached Robbins, too. He might be an old familiar colleague to Gil, but he lost sight at times of the fact that Robbins was a respected member of the forensics community in his own right; published many times over, turning down requests for speaking engagements on a regular basis. Robbins commanded a certain level of attention above and beyond his irregular presence at this fraught autopsy, and Gil appreciated that, as they went inside and down to the basement of the cavernous building.

"How's your wife?" Robbins asked Clemons, the bluff-faced state ME. "And your son?"

"Dale's at UT now." Clemons looked pleased to be asked. "Studying pre-med at the moment, can you believe it? I thought he'd do anything but medicine, but he surprised the hell out of me."

"Sons can do that," was Robbins's mild, meaningful reply.

A group had gathered outside the autopsy bay. Gil saw Nick's parents, along with several people he didn't know. Two, introduced by Liz Stokes, turned out to be lab employees; the remaining three, including two colleagues from the DA's office, and one heavyset silver-haired man whose name revealed him to be the Lt. Governor of Texas.

Stolidly, Gil shook hands with everyone, ignoring as best he could the glimmers of recognition in the forensics' staff's eyes. He, too, was visible, and that combined with the relative notoriety of being the man who was today digging up the body of his male lover meant everyone was watching. He could not allow himself the luxury of visible reaction. The outcome was a known thing; he simply had to endure until such time as that was made apparent to everyone else.

Hank Stokes looked as tired as Gil felt, casting an uneasy look at him and the bruise lingering on Gil's jaw. "You look like hell," he said gruffly under his breath. "You sure about all this?"

Gil met his hooded gaze squarely. "I better be," he said. "Hadn't I?"

Hank didn't reply.

Liz kept her distance, her face set in formal, stony lines while the coffin was examined, only showing a hint of her distress when the lid was finally lifted. The smell drove away her coworkers, and the Lt. Governor, Patrick, made an inarticulate noise and fled after them.

Impassive as a judge himself, Clemons handed out eucalyptus-rich ointment to those who felt squeamish, and proceeded.

The body, Gil saw, was more decomposed than he was expecting. Of course this was north Texas: the humidity level here was much higher than what he encountered in Las Vegas, and decomposition progressed at a correspondingly faster rate. As with many bodies he'd seen in the past, the process was hindered by embalming, making it a curious question as to which parts of the body resisted nature the longest. The body's face, of course, was long gone; it had been buried without it. But the trunk and upper extremities were comparatively less far gone than the lower half of the body.

Clad in familiar protective garb, Robbins stood silently near the body's missing head, his eyes grim and focused on the remains. Clemons gave him a fast glance. "What you expected to see?"

Robbins nodded. "This appears to be the same injury I noted in my original examination, yes."

"Anything else?"

"Not at this time."

Gil felt a cold hand on his wrist, and gave Liz Stokes a startled look. Her face was waxy-pale, and sweat beaded her upper lip. "This isn't my first exhumation," she said in a low, thick voice. "But I don't remember the smell bothering me so badly before."

Gil thought about reminding her this was no ordinary case, and decided against it, settling for covering her icy hand with his own.

Comparing the findings with Robbins's original report took time, but from all appearances this body here was the same as that Gil had escorted from Vegas back to Dallas those months before. Watching Clemons bare the ribcage, examining the internal organs, Gil felt a sudden wave of vertigo. Was this Dallas, or home? It was cold, and the smell was unbearable. He swallowed bile, and then Robbins's voice sounded near his ear.

"Come over here, Gil. Sit down."

He let unseen hands perambulate him to a chair, and shook his head, blinking rapidly.

"Maybe you should sit out the rest," Al said kindly, his face drawn with concern. Behind him Liz hovered, giving him an anxious look.

"What?" Gil managed.

"You nearly passed out. If this is too much –"

"No," Gil said flatly. "I'll make it. I have to."

Robbins gave a slow, patently unconvinced nod. "Very well."

It was nearly done, anyway; a fact for which Gil was privately grateful. With a deep sigh, Clemons turned to look at all of them. "All we can do now is wait. As you know, it will take some time to see DNA results and do a comparison. Why don't y'all head home, get some rest?"

Gil thought about objecting, but Clemons was correct, and his headache bid fair to becoming a real monster. It made sense, and so he waited while Nick's parents thanked the ME, and then followed obediently while the bulk of the party filed out.

"I'll take you to your hotel," Gil said to Robbins outside, taking great gulps of the hot humid air.

"I'm not sure you should drive. I'll grab a cab, Gil. No need."

"It's all –"

"Gil," Liz interrupted. "Don't play Superman this late in the game." Her tone was both sour and fond, and Gil thought bleakly it was a tone he'd heard her use more than once on her son. "We'll take care of him," she added to Robbins, after shaking his hand once more. "We'll call you in the morning, how's that?"

"I appreciate it."

"Thank you for making the trip. I know it was short notice."

Robbins looked grieved suddenly. "Nick was a friend," he said thickly. "It was the least I could do."

Liz gave him a slow nod, and took Gil's arm. "Home, then."

* * *


	14. Fourteen

**Afterlife**

**By EB**

**©2005**

**Chapter Fourteen**

His phone woke him from a sleep so deep it was like paralysis. Gil drew a couple of breaths, fumbling for the cell, and glanced instinctively at the clock by his bed. Nearly nine. He'd been asleep for ten hours. No wonder he was groggy.

His own voice sounded strange to his ears, thick and barely intelligible. A pause, enough for him to think about saying hello again, and a man said, "You've crossed the line."

Gil sat up, sleepiness vanishing in a second of cold shock. "What line?" he asked.

"Haven't you heard about letting sleeping dogs lie? Have you been listening to me? I could cover for you this far. No further. You're on your own, Mr. Grissom."

Gil swallowed. "When haven't I been? You say you've been covering for me? Covering what? Who do you work for? What's your interest in this?"

"My interest is in staying alive," the man hissed. "They're onto you now. They know what you're doing."

"Who is they?' Tell me!"

A long pause, and the man said, "If you proceed, you have to understand what you're getting into."

"How can I? You've told me nothing!"

"Henley-Jackson is only the beginning. There's more, much more. It goes higher than you've imagined. All the way to the top, Mr. Grissom."

"The top of what?"

"Check your vehicle."

"What –"

Nothing. Gil hung up, muttering a sodden curse under his breath.

A shower and careless shave later, he made his way downstairs. He was expecting to be alone, but Nick's parents sat at the kitchen table, the remains of breakfast littering their plates.

"Gil." Liz put down her coffee cup and gave him a thin smile. "How are you feeling?"

"Better, thank you." Gil glanced at Hank. "Morning."

"Coffee's hot. Help yourself."

"Thanks."

He drank half a cup standing by the coffeepot, and then said, "Be right back."

His rental car was locked, but a brown manila envelope sat on the passenger seat. Heart trip-thumping in his chest, Gil unlocked the door and reached in to grab it. All the way to the top. The top of what? Would this package say? Or would it be cryptic, as all the rest of his unknown informant's words up to now?

Inside, Liz gave him a quizzical look. "Anything?"

"I'm not sure yet."

He took the package upstairs, furtive and seething with impatience. Seated on the bed, he ripped the envelope open, thinking about an earlier, similar one and the bizarre puzzles it presented. That day seemed like years ago already. Would this one hold any actual answers? Or just more endless questions?

The envelope held two items. The first was a densely covered sheet of paper, and Gil frowned, staring at it. Arabic, it must be. Graceful script, utterly unintelligible.

Sighing, he looked at the second item.

It was an 8x10" photograph of Nick.

Gil gave a strangled sound. Nick, alone on a city street somewhere. Noplace Gil recognized, and for the moment he didn't care. Was this taken after Nick's "death?" He looked the same as he had the day the shooting happened. Hair cut military-short, dressed in inconspicuous khakis and a dark shirt. Was this Las Vegas? If it was, it was no area Gil had ever seen.

Hot tears welled like acid in his eyes, obscuring the photograph. He leaned his head back, willing them down. Or was this Nick, now? Maybe yesterday? Alive and breathing, not a mark on him? Living somewhere else, using an assumed name? Maybe the packet of false identification had already been rifled, missing the set Nick had taken to make his escape. The leftovers were the rejects.

And he hadn't taken Gil with him. He'd run, and left everything behind, his life, his career, his lover.

Downstairs, the doorbell rang. With a titanic effort Gil made himself not look at the photograph again, stuffing it and the Arabic-language paper back into the envelope. Should have thought to dust for prints, he thought wildly, and remembered his kit was at home, back in Vegas. It was a bizarre mistake to make. Why hadn't he planned ahead? He knew he was going to work on Nick's mystery; shouldn't he have brought more with him?

Voices, exclaiming, carrying up the stairwell. His hands trembled badly as he stowed the enveloped in his open briefcase. He reached up to wipe his wet cheeks, drew a couple of deep breaths, and headed for the stairs.

"Gil," Liz said to him in the living room, her face softened with a smile. "Guess who's here?"

The back of his neck prickled superstitiously. He thought he already knew, as he turned slowly, looking over by the fireplace.

"Hey, Gil," Cabe Stokes said evenly. "How you holding up?"

Gazing at him, Gil felt the tears come back, and quashed them viciously. "You," he managed. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. "You bastard."

Cabe's expression didn't change, even as Gil heard Liz's gasped, "Gil?" behind him. "Your idea to dig up my brother's body?" Cabe asked, gazing intently at him. His expression was impossible to read. "Wish you'd talked to me first."

"Tell me what you know," Gil grated. Bright spots twinkled in the periphery of his vision. His heart galloped in his ears, a loud thump that made it hard to hear. "Tell me!"

"I don't know anything more than you do."

"Cabe?" Liz sounded querulous, darting a look from her older son to Gil and back again. "What's going on? What's this about?"

"Nothing," Cabe said calmly, still watching Gil. "Right, Gil?"

Gil put a shaking hand to his temple. "You liar," he said thickly, as the room started slowly revolving around him. "You KNOW. And you never TOLD me."

"Sit down, man. You're about to –"

It was very hard to breathe. And his pulse was so damned loud. He felt a quick surge of nausea, bright and disgusting, and then the floor rushed up to meet him.

* * *

"Should have seen this coming."

Gil watched Al Robbins methodically adjusting his stethoscope. "What coming?"

"Frankly? Where do I even begin? You're exhausted, Gil. Your blood pressure is alarmingly high. Your resting pulse even now is 110, and that's tachycardia, in case you were wondering." He pulled the cuff off Gil's arm and set it aside. "That syncopal episode in the living room was a warning," he continued severely. "One you were probably lucky to get. You're not a kid anymore. Stop treating your body as if it were indestructible."

Gil leaned his head back on the pillow. At least the headache was gone, but his pulse was still audible, thumping tinnitus-like in his ears. "I fainted."

"Very much so. You were out for more than an hour. Nick's mother was frantic."

"How did I get up here?"

"Cabe, mostly. If I hadn't known he was Nick's brother, I'd never have guessed; he's much heav –"

"Cabe. Where's Cabe?" Gil pushed at the mattress with his hands, and Robbins reached down to stop him.

"Forget about that," Al said gruffly. "You're staying flat on your back until I see better measurements."

"I'm fine. I just need –"

"You need rest, and to damn well relax. You won't do Nick any good if you keel over with a stroke or an MI."

Gil stared at him. "Nick. The ph -- The test. The DNA test. Have they –"

Robbins's hand squeezed Gil's upper arm. "Chuck called a few minutes ago. Preliminary, but you were right. It's not Nick's body."

Gil flopped back, eyes closing. "God. Oh thank God."

"Liz Stokes is downstairs right now. There's a lot of hubbub going on, as you probably would expect. Whose body is it, if not Nick's, and so on." He sighed. "And where is Nick, if not dead?"

Gil shook his head slowly, without opening his eyes. "I don't know. But I believe Cabe does."

"Surely not, Gil. If he did, and didn't tell anyone –"

"How soon can I go?" Gil asked flintily.

Robbins considered him. "The labetalol I gave you should help your blood pressure soon," he replied. "But this is not an acute problem, it's chronic. You need a full workup, Gil, echocardiogram, stress test, the whole nine yards. Not to mention possibly a cranial CT as well, make sure a TIA didn't cause your blackout."

"I don't have time for that."

"Need I remind you of the potential consequences of inaction?"

"Write me a prescription," Gil said woodenly. "I'll do that much. The rest will have to wait."

"I'm not licensed to practice medicine in Texas, Gil."

"So get Chuck Clemons to write it."

"He'll want to know why."

Gil snorted. "Then tell him. But I have things to do. They can't wait, Al. Nick can't wait."

Robbins gave a slow nod. "For all you know, Nick could be in another country right now. What if he doesn't want to be found? Have you considered that?"

"Of course," Gil snapped. "But I don't believe that. I can't believe it."

"Any lightheadedness, blurred vision, facial drooping – you call me immediately, or Chuck Clemons. In fact don't even bother; go to the nearest hospital, Gil. Swear you'll do that. This goes against my better judgement. You MUST promise me you will take responsibility, as best you can."

Gil nodded. "Agreed."

Robbins swallowed. "If it's all the same to you," he said hoarsely, "I'd just as soon not trade your life for Nick's."

"It won't come to that."

"I pray you're right."

* * *

When Robbins finally allowed him up, there was no sign of Cabe. Asking Liz was fruitless; she was entirely focused on other matters.

"I have a meeting with Joe Andrews at noon," she told him, glancing at her watch. "He's the SAC around here."

Gil blinked at her. "You're involving the FBI?"

"My son is missing. Two states are involved. It's their jurisdiction."

"But it's –"

"I appreciate your involvement, Gil. Far more than I could possibly say." She regarded him without smiling. "But at this point I have to ask you to let me handle matters, all right? I will find Nick. It's just a matter of time."

Try asking someone a lot closer to home, Gil thought, but something kept him from saying it. Instead he nodded. "And Hank?"

"Went back to Austin this morning. He's seeing the governor today."

The creeping sense that this was the wrong way to go about it left him wordless. He shrugged, fighting down a swell of worry. What else could she do? Now that Nick's was officially not the body inside that grave, the natural thing was to start a manhunt.

"Liz, where is Cabe?"

"He said he had business to attend to."

Gil nodded. "Business related to Nick?"

She frowned. "He didn't say. Why?"

"Never mind." He turned, clenching his teeth.

"Gil. What do you know that you aren't telling me?"

He glanced back at her. "I'm not sure," he said honestly. "Maybe nothing."

"Maybe not nothing." Liz lifted her chin. "What mess was Nick in? Tell me!"

"I wish I knew."

"Did he plan this?" she snapped. "Did you plan it together?"

He swallowed and said, "You think I knew about this all along? You're wrong, Liz. As far as I knew, Nick was dead. Maybe he planned this. He planned something, certainly, but whatever it was, he didn't tell me about it."

She blinked and looked down. "I'm sorry, I knew that already." Pressing her left temple with her fingers, she shook her head. "I can't get past it," she whispered. "The idea that he's been alive all this time, and he never let us know. He let us grieve, Gil. You, me, everyone. And he did nothing about it." She looked up finally, and Gil saw with a pang that her eyes were filled with tears. "My son would never do something so – cruel. Never. Not unless he had no choice."

Gil gave an unsteady nod. "I believe that, too."

"It would make him – a monster. Was he a monster? What didn't I know about my son, Gil?"

Pretty much the very same things I didn't know, he thought, and pressed his lips together. "I guess we'll both find out, somehow, won't we?" he asked softly.

She gave a silent nod.

"I'm going – out," he added after a long moment. "I need to think."

"Be careful, Gil."

"Of course."

The sun outside was late-summer blazing hot, and sweat popped out immediately on his forehead. Outside, but where was he going? He needed to act, but there was nothing to act upon.

His cell phone rang, and he flinched and fished it out of his pocket.

"We need to talk," Cabe said in his ear.

Gil stiffened, stopping short by his rental car. "Agreed. Where?"

"Meet me at the Fair Park. The fountain by the band shell."

"Ca –"

"Don't tell Mom. Whatever you do. If you love Nick, if you care about him at all – don't tell a goddamn soul. You got that?"

"I got it," Gil snapped.

* * *

The State Fair was still a few weeks away; the park grounds were mostly deserted, lonely in waiting for crowds to come. Gil turned off Cullum onto MLK and eased the rental down the street. The fountain was easy to see; large and planted with splashy flowers. He parked nearby, and set out on foot, the back of his neck prickling uneasily.

He stood for about five minutes before Cabe was visible, walking briskly from an alcove near the band shell. His handsome face was tight with tension, and he gave Gil a crisp nod. "You made good time."

"Where is he?" Gil asked bluntly.

Cabe glanced around, licking his lips. "I can't tell you that."

"Bullshit. You choose not to tell me. He's alive, Cabe, I have the proof now. I'm sick and tired of these games!"

"They aren't games." Cabe sighed, eyes flickering restlessly around the park. "And this isn't safe. We need to go someplace."

Gil crossed his arms. "I'm not going anywhere, not without more than that – crap."

"Nick's alive," Cabe said slowly. "And if you want him to stay that way, you'll walk away, Gil. Just walk away. And don't look back."

"Oh, for God's –"

"Haven't you done enough already? Jesus, how much clearer can I be? You can't help him, Gil, you can't. Let him go, and someday -- Someday you'll understand. Please."

"I want to understand NOW!" Gil bellowed.

Cabe opened his mouth, and Gil heard a faint coughing sound, brief and dull as the sodden wind whipping his pants legs around his ankles. Cabe's eyes widened, and then he stumbled forward, grasping at Gil with both hands.

Gil caught him, oofing under his sudden weight, and saw the blossoms of blood on Cabe's shirt back.

Another cough, quiet and demure, and a bullet split the air next to Gil's ear.

"Jesus," he gasped, dragging Cabe's limp body against the scant shelter of the fountain.

A second later there was the ringing sound of unsilenced rifle fire, and then the only thing Gil could hear was the happy gurgling of the fountain, and Cabe's noisy, wet breathing.

* * *


	15. Fifteen

**Afterlife**

**By EB**

**©2005**

**Chapter Fifteen**

"Mr. Grissom?"

Gil looked up. The man standing before him was on the short side, maybe 5'6", and undeniably portly, dressed in a neat, cheap navy suit. He smiled, revealing bright white teeth. "I'm Detective Hinojos. We spoke earlier on the phone."

Gil accepted the handshake, nodding. "Yes. I assume you want to ask me some questions."

"Why don't I spot you a cup of coffee? You look like you could use one."

Gil glanced uncertainly over at the clot of family by the windows. They hadn't had much to say to him, not even as the surgery waiting room had filled with Stokeses, Hank and Liz and their many daughters, sons-in-law, grandchildren. The arrival of Cabe's petite, pretty wife and two children only an hour ago had set off a cascade of crying and embracing, underscoring Gil's sharp sense of helpless guilt.

No one seemed to notice now as he ducked out of the room and followed the detective to the elevator

"How's your friend?" Hinojos asked, punching the ground-floor button.

"Still in surgery." Gil leaned against the elevator wall and shoved his hands in his pockets. "I can tell you right now, I don't know who did it. I don't even have any theories."

Hinojos gave a philosophical nod. "Still, it's been a pretty big week for the family, hasn't it? One son turns out not to be dead, the other shot in public in broad daylight? I gotta tell you, Mr. Grissom, that's got all kinds of bells and whistles going off for me."

"For me, too."

"Then they're connected?"

"I think so. But I don't know how."

They didn't speak again until they were seated in the labyrinthine cafeteria, hot cups of bad coffee in front of them. With a glance around, Hinojos regarded him grimly, the professional smile gone.

"Lemme just put all the cards on the table, Mr. Grissom," he said. "I think you know more than you're saying. I believe you don't know who shot Cabe Stokes today. But there's a lot you're leaving out, isn't there? What were you doing out at the Fair Park? I'm going to assume it wasn't because y'all got the dates for the fair wrong."

Gil tasted his bitter coffee and shook his head. "Cabe asked me to meet him there. To discuss Nick."

"That's the younger brother, the one they exhumed couple days ago?"

"Or didn't exhume. It wasn't his body in the grave."

"That surprise you?"

Gil gazed into his cup. "By that point? No. No, it didn't particularly surprise me."

"Your connection to Nick Stokes?"

"He was my partner."

"And that –"

"Life partner. Lover."

No trace of censure showed on Hinojos's ruddy face; he gave an impassive nod. "Tell you what. Why don't you just start from the top, okay? Best place."

He told the detective almost everything. Everything but the call from his personal Deep Throat and the package that had materialized in his rental car the day the DNA was processed. By the time he wound down, their coffee cups were empty, and Hinojos looked troubled.

"So somebody was taking care of business," he remarked, a furrowed line carved deep between his eyebrows.

"Someone didn't want Cabe talking to me. Who that was, obviously I don't know."

"They shot him. Tried to shoot you. And what happened then?"

Gil shook his head. "From the sound of it, there was a second shooter. Unsilenced. The shot came from a different direction."

"But not shooting at you."

"No, I don't think they were. I think –" Gil broke off, frowning. "I think they were shooting at the original shooter. Whether or not they hit anyone, I don't know. Cabe was -- My concern was for him at that point."

"And you didn't see anything else? Hear anything?"

"Nothing. I wish I had."

Hinojos nodded. "You're in the cop business, aren't you, Mr. Grissom? Forensics?"

"In Las Vegas, yes."

"We got one guy who's supposed to be dead but isn't. A brother who's in surgery right now. All linked to what? An off-the-books casino audit and an accounting firm that pays its board members with funny money? How's it all link together?"

"That's what I've been trying to find out," Gil said honestly. "But it always tracked back to Texas. Evan Santley, the phone records from my house."

"That's right, your informant. Any ideas who he is?"

"None whatsoever."

"Someone from the accounting firm, maybe? Reporter?"

"I don't know. I wish I did. Whoever he is, he knows what this all means."

"Why's he calling you? What does he want?"

"I can only assume he's too close to it to do anything himself. He wants me to uncover it."

"Will you?" Hinojos asked softly.

Gil swallowed. "I think I have to try."

"You realize it's probably gonna make you the next victim?"

"Maybe."

* * *

After extracting a promise that Gil wouldn't leave the DFW area for at least another twenty-four hours, Hinojos let him return to the SICU waiting area. Liz joined him where he stood awkwardly by the far left windows.

"Any word?" Gil asked hoarsely.

She had aged over the past few hours, grooves around her mouth much more apparent, her elegantly graying hair a little mussed. "He's in recovery," she told him. "Barring any more surprises, he'll be all right."

Gil sagged a little. "Thank God. Liz, I'm so sor –"

"You didn't do this," she said in a tight voice. "I don't blame you for it. But you're hiding things from me, from all of us. Aren't you?"

"Only things I'm not sure about yet."

"Did Cabe know? What was he going to tell you?"

"I don't know. He didn't have time to say it."

Her too-bright eyes met his, filled with rage and bedrock-deep fear. "I nearly traded one son for another today, Gil," she said, shaking her head. "I'm goddamn sick of this. Did Cabe know Nick was alive? Did he?"

Gil drew a deep breath. "Yes." He saw her flinch, and hastened to add, "But there is more to it, Liz, there has to be. There must be an explanation."

"What could there be?"

"He'll have to be the one to tell you that. I don't have the answers."

She looked as if she wanted to add something else, but pressed her lips together, glancing away. Finally she said, "I refuse to risk any more of my family, Gil. Looking for Nick nearly got Cabe killed. Next time, he might not be so lucky." She returned her icy look to Gil. "So I'm asking you. Find Nick. Find out who's behind this. I have to –" Her voice shook, and she made a terrible face. "I need to be with my family now. This has all cost – too much."

"I know," he said softly. "I know that, Liz."

"What will you do?"

He sighed. "I have an errand to run today. And I need to call home, talk with one of my colleagues. Aside from that – I don't know yet."

"If I can help –"

"Don't," he said. "Let me do this, Liz. Other people need you right now."

She nodded and briefly touched his arm. "Be careful," she said, and uttered a bitter single laugh. "As much as you can."

"Of course."

Motion at the door caught their attention, and Gil looked over to see a scrubs-clad man enter the room. "Family of Cabe Stokes?"

They surrounded him immediately, a silent anxious clot of people. Hovering at the outskirts, Gil listened intently.

"Mr. Stokes came through the surgery very well. Remarkably well, really." The surgeon gave a relieved smile. "He'll need some physical therapy, and we'll be watching for infection, of course. But barring anything unexpected, he should be just fine."

Cabe's wife Molly wiped her cheeks. "Can I see him?"

"Pretty soon. He's still in recovery. But he's asking for someone, and he's very insistent. I told him it could wait, but he's so agitated, in spite of the anesthesia, I think it might be best to honor his wish."

"Who?" Hank asked.

"Someone named Gil."

Gil stood stock-still while more than a dozen pairs of eyes turned immediately to him. "I'm Gil Grissom," he said slowly.

The surgeon gave a hesitant nod. "A minute, no more, understood?"

"Of course."

The recovery area was icy-cold, busy with nurses and aides and noisy with the sounds of too much equipment. Cabe lay unmoving in a bed, connected to so many lines and monitors Gil was daunted. A sizeable man, Cabe Stokes, but he seemed sadly reduced, chalky-pale and ill.

But his eyes were open, scanning the room with feverish intent. Gil walked slowly over, stopping by his bedside. "Cabe?"

Part of the hectic clarity, he saw immediately, was drugs: Cabe was barely out of anesthesia, medicated to the eyebrows, and Gil was struck by the fact that even so, Cabe managed to fix him with a fierce glare. "Shouldn't have – met you there," he croaked, and coughed, making himself wince. "God. Stupid."

Gil clung to the bedrail, tense with sympathy. "Cabe, we can talk later, don't –"

"No." Cabe's IV-ridden hand closed on Gil's wrist. "No time. Listen. I don't – know where he is. Not now. He left – two weeks ago."

"Left where?"

"H-Houston. Running. Sc-scared."

His voice was breathy, and Gil leaned forward. "Scared of what, Cabe?" he asked tightly. "Tell me what had him on the run."

"Too – much, can't." Cabe was panting, sweat beading on his forehead.

"That's enough, sir," a nurse told him, and took a firm grip on his elbow. "He's not even out of the recovery room yet."

"Gil." Cabe fixed him with a terrible glare. "It's big. Bigger – than you know. Gotta – find Nick. I can't."

"I will," said Gil grimly. "You can bet on that."

* * *

It was a longer drive than he'd thought, to the University of North Texas campus. Denton was a typical college town, though, and not difficult to navigate once he was there. He parked in a shady visitor parking lot and grabbed his briefcase.

He found Professor Muna Kanasani in her tiny office on the first floor of the languages building. She greeted him with a smile and nod, brushing unruly dark hair off her forehead.

"Thank you for seeing me on short notice," Gil said, sitting when she gestured him to the single chair in front of her desk. "I appreciate it."

"You were fortunate you caught me before the semester started." Her smile was ingenuous, and he couldn't help echoing it. "One of our French professors is taking a sabbatical, and I'm afraid I'll be in class all day by the end of August. You said you were in need of some translating?"

He nodded and opened his case. "Even just an idea of what's here. I'm not a bad hand with German and a few other languages, but I never had the opportunity to study Arabic."

She took the sheet of paper and put on a pair of half-moon glasses, frowning slightly. "I can have a look," she said absently, already scanning the page. "Well, I can see something right away. You're missing the rest of this document."

"Oh?"

"This begins in mid-thought. And –" She glanced to the bottom of the page. "—goes on as well."

"Can you get an idea of the subject matter, at least?"

"It appears to be an affidavit of some sort. The language, however – a curious combination." She looked up. "There are two basic delineations of Arabic, did you know that? Formal, written Arabic, and colloquial spoken idioms, the common Arabic you hear on the street. This document combines them, I can only suppose because it is some sort of – memoir."

Gil nodded slowly. "Memoir of what?"

"Or a confession, perhaps. What's the legal term?"

"A deposition?"

"Yes, yes, exactly." She resumed studying the page. "It seems this person, whoever they are, is a political figure of some kind." Her accent was almost imperceptible, showing only in words like "figure," which she pronounced "figger." "He or she is talking about banking matters, the transfer of funds." She frowned more deeply. "There are references to a company or corporation of some sort, but no names. It's somewhat – disorganized, actually. Where did you get this?"

"I found it. I have no idea where it came from. Why?"

"It appears that whoever wrote this, or dictated it, was deeply concerned about political ramifications of these money transfers." She put the page down, steepling her fingers. "He seems to believe that it would be an unwise political move."

Money transfers. Gil sucked in a breath. Money siphoned into the US using a casino for laundering purposes? But from where? Iran, Saudi Arabia? Egypt? And for what purpose? "You said it's an idiom. Can you tell which? Is there anything to indicate which country this person might come from?"

"Nothing so specific. But see here." She pointed to the last section of text, tapping it with her fingernail. "This amount of money -- It's quite sensational. The author believes that transfers were made in the billions. US dollars."

"I see," Gil said unsteadily. "That is interesting."

"I would need a bit more time to do a word-for-word translation." Kanasani drew back a bit. "May I make a photocopy?"

"I don't – think that would be wise. I'd rather not have copies floating around."

"If you're willing to wait, I can attempt –"

A surge of fresh anxiety made him shake his head. "No, thank you. I -- I need to go. But thank you for your time."

"Very well." With a mildly puzzled look she handed back the page, and regarded him somberly. "If I may be so bold," she said slowly, "this may be part of a very dangerous document. There are only a few Arabic-speaking nations that could afford such tremendous transfers of cash, that I know of. And those – are politically volatile areas, I do not have to remind you. The discovery of such transfers could be – very big news."

He gave a tense nod. "I agree."

"Perhaps you should watch your back, sir."

"Believe me, I am."

In his car, he took out his cell phone and tiredly noted his fingers shaking while he dialed the lab. A couple of transfers, and he got Archie's voice mail. He waited for the message to end, and said, "Archie, it's Grissom. Call me on my cell when you get in tonight." He stated his number, and hung up.

* * *

Using the machines in Liz Stokes's well-equipped home office, Gil scanned the photograph of Nick, using the highest detail available to him. Then, seated uncomfortably at Liz's tidy desk, he attached the file to an email and sent it to Archie's inbox.

His phone rang at six on the dot. "Grissom? What's up?"

"Archie, good. I've sent you a scan of a photograph. I'd like you to take a look at it for me."

"No problem. What's the picture?"

Gil swallowed. "This is where it gets complicated. I have to ask you for maximum discretion, understood? You can't tell anyone what you see. No one, not in the lab or anywhere else. Lives may depend on it. All right?"

"Okay," Archie said slowly, sounding mystified. "What am I looking for?"

"I need to know where that picture was taken, and if possible, when."

"Gonna be hard to do when without the original."

"I realize that. But I'm in Dallas, and I can't get it to you quickly enough."

"Sure, I'll do the best I can. Anything else?"

Gil let out a brief sigh, one he hoped Archie didn't overhear, and shook his head. "Not at the moment. Call me when you find something?"

"You didn't tell me what it's a picture of."

"I don't need to," Gil said tonelessly. "You'll see soon enough."

The house felt dismally empty, Liz and Hank and everyone else clearly still at the hospital with Cabe. He briefly wished he'd let Professor Kanasani make a copy of the paper, give him a literal translation, but he'd risked too much already, going there at all. The last thing he wanted was to put even more people in jeopardy, any more than he already had.

Money, a tremendous amount of it; far more than Paul Brooks's audit had turned up. Far more than could be covered up by a few payoffs to Henley-Jackson board members, if Gil's own figures were correct. There was much, much more money involved, but where was the rest of it? Who had received it, and for what purpose? Bribes? Clandestine political maneuvering? To what end?

Deep Throat had told him it went all the way to the top. Was that as literal as it sounded? "The top" could be the president/CEO of Henley-Jackson. It could be the governor's office. And it could be higher even than that.

He made himself get up and walk to the drinks cabinet, pouring a generous measure of Hank's good Irish whiskey. The liquor tasted smoky on his tongue, burning when it hit his empty stomach. He thought about the medications Al Robbins had insisted he take, and his phone rang.

"Archie? That was quick."

"Archie? Not even close."

The voice was so familiar, so accented, for a cruel moment he thought it was Nick. And then a short, tense laugh and the southern-tinged voice added, "It's Dan Huckaby. We talked in Vegas. Remember?"

Huckaby. The reporter. Nick's lookalike. Gil sagged down into a chair and gave a nod. "Huckaby. Yes. What –"

"Look, I don't want to talk on the phone. But I gotta see you."

"See me? I'm in Dal –"

"Yeah, I know. Where can we meet?"

"Meet." A dismal flash of memory struck him: Cabe Stokes's unmoving body in his arms, the feel of his blood-soaked shirt. "I'll pick you up. Where are you?"

"At the fucking airport, in a men's room."

Mouth paper-dry, Gil said, "Stay in public places. Around people. Which terminal?"

"A. Christ, man, I hope you haul ass. I feel like I'm flapping in the breeze here."

"You are. I'll be there as soon as I can."

* * *


End file.
